The Data-Pad
by Autobot Chromia
Summary: Nothing will ever be the same way again. It hurts, terribly, but they can never tell him that. He wouldn't understand. Just like he doesn't understand why a sad stranger shows up at his doorsteps every day. The stranger sits down with him and tells him a story, leaves, and does the same thing the next day and the next and the next. And he never knows that - he never remembers.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**Warnings - None/ 'mental disorder' similar to Alzheimer's, dementia, and selective amnesia.**

**Disclaimer - I do not own The Transformers, Transformers: Animated, The Notebook, or 40 First Dates**

**Chapter Rating - T for safety but probably a G. The ratings shouldn't go higher than a T, other than language perhaps.**

**Summary - After the final battle in Detroit, Michigan, many of the earth-based Autobots return to Cybertron. Years pass, time ticks on, and nothing ever changes. Nothing ever changes because everything's changed, and they can't tell him that. He wouldn't understand. He doesn't understand the sad looks he gets or why a stranger keeps appearing at his front door. A stranger with a sad story he claims all is true, the story locked safely away within his Data-Pad.**

**Characters this chapter - Prowl, Ratchet, Jazz**

* * *

It was high noon. The sun, as it normally was on a clear, summer day at high noon, was bright and glaring. It beat down upon those below, a single traveler, like a cruel slave-owner. Its whips of ultraviolet rays stretched out into infinity, not a cloud in the sky or a bit of shade to offer an escape from the immense torture of the summer heat.

His cooling fans kicked in, the white-rock path that had been laid by the ancient Masters of Cyber-Zu and Metallico weaving beneath like a snake and burned the bottom of his pedes like the desert sands of Earth. The smooth rocks, as white as a fresh fallen snow, branched off from time to time and towards one or another of the small huts that dotted the Sanctuary like freckles on a little boy's face.

The Sanctuary, a place of retirement and peace, was home to the proud yet few who had learned and lived Martial Arts and were now finished. Now and then a stiff frame was passed by, balancing on some odd post or another or sitting cross-pede on the ground with optics shuttered in meditation. Once or twice a young student was seen assisting one of the elders of whatever branch of Ninjitsu they had learned, or, rarer still, being trained through the katas and positions of basic and advanced levels.

The traveler vented in, inhaling the spicy aroma of incense that burned nonstop in each of the huts and the dojos that adjoined the little homes. While not a student, a master, or even knowing anything about the fine arts practiced in the Sanctuary, he was a common sight there. He came at the same time each orn, walking up the same path and taking in the same sights without fail. He never bothered the Cyber-ninjas at work, and the ninjas in turn granted him passage and left him to his own tasks.

They never knew one another, what they liked, what they did, or even what their names were, but they knew that the traveler would come and trail down the twenty-first path without hesitance, and knock upon a door that had been specially crafted to resemble earth wood.

The door would open, a dim visor brightening at the sight of the old friend, and the door would shut once more. Then, for no more than two joors on a normal orn, things that they did not know took place until a second bot - one who lived and worked at the Sanctuary homes, one whose spark had been broken and shattered - would walk up the same path and take the place of the stranger.

It happened the same way orn after orn, no variations or changes. For groons - vorns - now, it had been so. It would always be so, until something happened to disrupt the thin fabric they had woven, an allusion to sadate the delusional.

Then, slowly, the second visitor of the quiet home would follow the path the first had taken, returning to his home long before the sun had set.

* * *

Ratchet vented, thanking the Maker above that he, as a Cybertronian, had not been born with sweat glands. It was hot enough without his frame secreting an oily, gross, wet, and sometimes smelly liquid making him even more uncomfortable, thank you very much. It was bad enough that, because of his whirring cooling fans and the near plutonium-melting heat outside, condensation was causing his frame to become very sleek and wet despite the thin coat of wax he had on.

He stretched out a hand, warped with age and in need of a fresh coat of paint, and knocked upon the door he himself had special ordered to look like redwood.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

He paused, taking a moment to wipe away some of the nasty condensation dripping down his servo before knocking again. He mentally counted, ticking off the kliks until the quiet padding of ninja-pedes finally reached the door, and it slid to the side instead of up like most _normal_ doors did.

The bot, colors or precious metal, obsidian, and khaki, barely filled the doorway as he peered out towards his surprise guest. Optics hidden behind a visor of thick, stained glass blinked slowly as a processor whirred and tried to pin a name to a face that just seemed so familiar, he just had to know-

"Ratchet." Prowl started when the name hit him, flying from his lips as if his mouth and mind were one. "I... wasn't expecting you."

The old war-medic shrugged a scarred shoulder. "Well, just found some time on hand an' decided to pay you a visit."

The ninja-bot paused for a moment, but gave a reluctant half-nod and stepped aside. "Come in." he said politely, etiquette not at all forgotten as Ratchet stepped inside. Immediately, the cool, shady insides of the home sent a shiver up his half-boiled, half-melted spinal struts. For such a thin, little building - Ratchet could tear the wall like cardboard if he really wanted to - it was surprisingly chilled compared to the heat of the outside.

Once inside, and decidedly less melted than before, Ratchet took in the little home like one familiar with each nook, cranny, and fixture within - which he was. He stood in the hall, which immediately merged with a small kitchen and table. A few rooms branched off, one he knew was quite spacious and used by those in Prowl's type of lifestyle for meditation and practice. A berthroom came off in the opposite direction, empty except for a small berthside table and no berth - ninjas seemed to have a thing against comfort - and instead used a rolled out piece of padding or sheet to serve as a bed. There was a wash racks, the only thing relatively up-to-date unlike the rest of the house, and each room and wall was made out of the same cardboard papery stuff and held together with sticks - at least in Ratchet's mind.

The only other room was immediately behind the kitchen table (a sad little thing that didn't even come higher that Ratchet's ankle) was one of Prowl's favorites. An indoor garden, or greenhouse, that connected to the actual home. Of course, like each of the huts within the Sanctuary, there was the mandatory rock garden, a trickling fountain, and a rocky path outside amongst crystals of all sorts, but this indoor room was special. Within the hidden wall bloomed the largest assortment of organic plants outside of the Botanical Gardens of multiple earth cities.

Roses of red, pink and white bloomed with 'butterfly' bushes of scarlet. Touch-me-nots of yellow where enveloped in patches of scattered baby's breath, those too accented with lilies of the valley. Marigolds of marvelous orange and snapdragons of royal purple and deep red rose side by side, compared to the tulips of ever color - and even mixed colors - imaginable that were offset by spider bushes and elephant's ear.

Crystals of all sorts acted as boarders to the organic, dirt and water and air and sunlight needing plants. A gritty rock path kept admirers from becoming full of carbon-based soil, and a single wall held each and every tool needed to uphold such an alien garden.

"Ratchet?" Prowl's voice was small, staring towards the same rooms the medic was. "Is something wrong?"

_Yes._ His mind immediately supplied. _Everything's wrong._ Quickly, he shook his helm. "Not at all. Why?"

Prowl shook his own helm. "No reason." he supplied, still looking oddly towards the little rooms. A nervous chuckle left his vocalizer. "This morning, when I woke up, I had no idea where I was. I didn't remember moving, but there was a note on the wall right where I could see it telling me I had. Moved, that is." Another chuckle. "It sounds odd, but..."

A heavy hand was placed on his shoulder. "Not at all."

"I-I could have sworn, though..." his voice trailed off for a moment, processor whirring. "I could have sworn that we were still on earth, and the Deceptcions-"

"Are all under lock and key." Ratchet comforted. "And, I'm not surprised you've forgotten. You've just moved in an all." _Two vorns, eleven groons ago._

Prowl gave a shrug of the hand. "I suppose."

A small niggling of guilt, a pang of regret that he had lied and how easy it had become pierced the doctor's spark, but the moment passed, and Ratchet clapped his hands together. "Now, just what where you planning on doing today before I showed up and blew away all your ideas?"

"I..." Prowl titled his helm, trying to remember just what he had planned on doing - if anything. He'd cleaned up, slowly, like one who was in a foreign place and trying to figure out just where everything was. The rest of the day had been spent in meditation and practicing some of the more basic katas that he hadn't done in awhile. He blinked, an idea hitting him. "My gardens. I haven't taken care of them yet today." He turned, subconsciously knowing just where to go, and pausing as he remembered that he had a guest. "But... you're here, so I suppose that they can wait for-"

"Why don't I help you?" Ratchet suggested quickly, motioning towards the greenhouse-room. "Like I said, I found some spare time and have nothing better to do."

"But," Prowl shook his helm, bordering on flustered, "you're a guest. I can't ask you to help me with chores when you've come here."

Ratchet snorted. "And if that guest himself asks to help? What do you - the grand host - do then?"

Prowl's mouth instinctual went to open, pausing halfway and slowly shutting it again as his processor blanked. He blinked once, helm dipping and visor band dimming as he thought long and hard as to how to answer.

Ratchet filled in the blank for him, placing a guiding hand on the smaller shoulder and leading him towards the greenhouse-room. "You let him help, no questions asked."

There was no point in protesting, Ratchet having already grabbed up a large, neon orange watering can half-filled with the two hydrogen for every one oxygen molecule liquid. He thrust a pair of pruning shears, more or less just oversized scissors, to start clipping away dead leaves and prickly thorns. Ratchet gave Prowl a push towards a large, neatly clipped rose bush that stretched just above the ninjabot's knee joint to start on, not giving the smaller and younger bot time to realize that Ratchet shouldn't know the layout of this place.

Prowl knelt, the dirt soft and warm beneath his pedes as the gritty. Cultivated dirt worked into every available seem and joint they could. Ratchet's watering, overly abundant, soon turned much of the rich earth-transported dirt into mud, and that too coated Prowl's lower half and into the divots of his hands.

It was somewhere among the begonias he was pulling miniature weeds from and Ratchet's drowning of a posy plant that he vented harshly.

The sprinkling, more of a flooding waterfall as he dumped the watering can's contents over the plant, stopped. "Something the matter, Prowl?"

"Indeed." the mini-mech huffed. "And the root of it is _you_."

"Me?" the doctor placed a hand over his spark, a very clean hand that glimmered with excess water and dripped with the clear liquid. "What have I done?"

"Besides practically kill each and every plant that-" his voice cut off, processor blanking. Just who had sent him all these earth plants? He couldn't have brought them with him himself, could he? He hadn't even remembered the fact that he had moved this morning let alone have remembered to buy the plants, tools, and have earth-based necessities for the flora.

Ratchet's spark twinged at the trouble his friend had, venting quietly to himself before supplying the missing name. "Optimus."

"Yes." Prowl nodded wholeheartedly, totally believing as the rather familiar name sounded. "Optimus. You're overwatering and going to drown out the flowers. Not to mention I am absolutely _covered_ in muck."

Ratchet chuckled, purposefully sprinkling a near-by, already drenched flower with water and outright laughing at the cry of alarm. "I'm only teasing. Why don't you take care of that patch over there a moment and I'll..." at Prowl's hard look, he neatly set aside the watering can, "start cleaning up."

Prowl vented, giving a reluctant nod of approval as he shook glops of mud from his hands and sinking to his knees in a different part of the indoor garden. Ratchet's idea of 'cleaning up' consisted of drying off his hands and refilling the watering can, set on finishing his half-done, half-drowned job. The can and organic fluid were instantly forgotten at a moan from the far side of the green-room, and he quickly slapped off the tap.

He was at Prowl's side in a moment. "What's wrong? Prowl?"

The short ninja-bot gave him no answer, neatly sitting on his pedes as his lithe digits brushed against a darkened crystal the way a lover would his loved one's cheek. Ratchet crouched down beside him, joints groaning in protest on the way down.

"Prowl?"

The mech swallowed. "My crystal. The one I've had since... before earth." His digits brushed against the small, near sproutlet sized prismed top. Faintly, murky shades of once lustrous white and ravishing black could be made out, both now sickly, milky, and transparent. "It was so plain, so small, next to nothing compared to some of the other plants here... but it was my favorite."

It was like watching a small child who had been looking about the house for a favorite doll or loved stuffed bear or blanket, a companion since birth, and finding it beneath the couch and torn to shreds by the family dog. The sadness hidden beneath the robin's egg blue visor, the quiet breaths that threatened to tremble.

"I-I don't understand." Prowl breathed after a moment. "It was fine just yesterday - I swear. But, it looks like its been dying for days."

_Quartexes_. Ratchet's processor supplied, moving to rest a hand on a slumped shoulder. The little crystal, the very same Prowl had hung onto since fleeing his destroyed dojo and late sensei, the very same that had survived the exploding of Prowl's ship and the storage in a box on earth, had finally been transplanted into its native soil after traveling both the globe and galaxies. It had been beautiful for quartexes, mere earth weeks, before a plant-plauge struck it it's second groon growing. It's germination was stunted, never to get larger than a sproutlet, and it had been loosing colors like a fading rainbow ever since then.

And now, its once pleasant, plain colors were nearly gone, the minerals of the crystal about to break down once the last of its pigment were drained away into the soil.

Ratchet huffed a vent, squeezing the little shoulder. "Maybe it'll get better. Right now, why don't you head inside and wash up? You really are dirty."

Processor as easily distracted as a slow robo-dog's, Prowl turned away from the crystal. "No thanks to you."

Ratchet chuckled, watching from his crouch as the ninja slunk off into the main house, helm lowered. He sighed, brushing his digit against the cool mineral glass, watching the sickly colors swirl beneath their crystal prison and slowly kill themselves out. He was a doctor, not a botanist - or geologist. He could cure an upset tank, reattach a mangled limb, operate on an internal bleed, check temperatures, and administer a hypodermic needle; but he couldn't heal this little plant. Groons had ticked by, and orn by orn the little crystal had suffered. Ratchet had studied books, asked help from those in the geo-botany field, but the little crystal never grew or regained its beautiful colors.

It was an all-too glaring reminder of something else he couldn't heal or fix, another dying soul crying out for help and never knowing it. But he did, Ratchet heard the screams and saw the signs and could do nothing.

Nothing except what he had been doing for vorns - lend a hand the only ways he could and try and be as kind as possible.

Ratchet vented again, placing his hands on his thighs for leverage as he pushed himself up from his crouch. His knee-joints creaked, his back struts protested the movement. He groaned to himself, a hand on his lower back, shaking his helm as he looked for the lush garden. So much life and beauty, and it only took one sickly root to ruin it.

He headed back into the house, just barely remembering thst he had to manually slide the door to the side before he put a hand through it, and had almost set a pede on the kitchen floor when a cry froze him in his tracks.

"Eh-eh-eh." Prowl scolded, a minty green chamois towel in his hands. "Don't move."

Ratchet's derma quirked, quivering at the edges. "And why not?" he demanded.

"I just cleaned up all the dirt _you_ got on me, and now you're going to mess up the floors again." Prowl stated harshly, tossing the towel across the kitchen and into Ratchet's awaiting hands. "Wipe yourself off there and _then_ you can wash up in the racks."

Fondling the fuzzy, soft towel between his hands, Ratchet refrained from rolling his optics. "Yes, _sir_." he addressed the younger mech the way he would have his CO back during the Great War.

Prowl didn't refrain from rolling his optics beneath his visor. He let them drift the entire circular motion freely, watching with those same optics with the scrutiny of a scientist in his lab as Ratchet methodically wiped the last of the water from his frame and the grit from the bottom of his pedes. He almost shook the towel, just to irritate the near mini-mech and his OCD cleanliness, but refrained as Prowl beat him to it and snatched the rag away. He trooped obediently into the wash racks for a thorough rinse, feeling much like a five-vorn old being told by their carrier to wash behind their audios.

He forged a full-body wash for a quick rinse in the sink, thankful that Prowl had seen fit to let him clean up alone in here. The room, like all the others, was spotless and pristine, the regular facilities and appliances one would find in a wash-room placed in the most 'logical' order.

The medic twisted the four-pronged, bronze handle of the tap to get the liquid running, testing it every few kliks until it reached the desired temperature. He squirted a bit of cleaning solution into his hands, wetting it quickly before withdrawing and working it into a heavy, foamy lather. The soap stuck to his armor thickly, but he didn't go any farther than his elbow joint. He really wasn't that dirty, but to Prowl, anything more than the invisible specks of dust was too much dirt. He quickly rinsed, the bubbles popping quietly as they were washed away in a swirl of suds and blue-tinted liquid.

He dried for the third time, tossing the hand towel onto the side of the sink. Never had he had to go through such a rigorous scrubbing, not even in surgery prep. Prowl was one neat freak.

A heavy vent left the old medic's shafts, just vorns ago he would have never pandered to the mechs every qualm. Every pet peeve and ritual he now obeyed with a patience Prowl's own Sensei Yokotron would have turned green for. But, Prowl hadn't been in this state back on earth.

He shook his helm, finding that he had had it lowered as he strolled from the wash-racks. He paused before the mech's berthroom, making sure Prowl was busy in one of the other rooms before slipping into the bare bedroom and glancing about. There, in a wastepaper basket most every room had, was a crumpled paper note. He reached in and grabbed it, smoothing the yellowed paper out until the words once again were legible even through the creases.

_'You moved in yesterorn.'_ it read. _'On Cybertron.'_

Nothing more, nothing less, and it meant the whole world. It was the difference between a faint understanding - a little child barely grasping the concepts of hard things like love or hate or compassion - and a panic attack.

He stuck the paper to the wall, right where Prowl would see it when he woke up the next orn. Its sticky back hung precariously, threatening to flutter down like a neon fall leaf, but clung just as it had the orn before and the orn before that one. Ratchet was going to need to get a new sticky note soon, perhaps in a different color. This lemony bright shade was too much for his old optics, perhaps fuzzy and dull to younger eyes. Maybe something more tame like white or blue.

An alert hit Ratchet's HUD, like it had for the past two vorns, eleven groons. He had five breems to get Prowl ready before another visitor arrived.

"Prowl." Ratchet called out, slipping from Prowl's berthroom quickly as he plodded into the kitchen. "Prowl, are ya in he-" He froze, vocalizer skillfully cutting out as his optics hit the still frame on the floor, seated by the little table missing chairs and height.

The mech sat still, unblinking. His visor was dim and face emotionless, really emotionless and not the facade of emptiness Prowl put on for show. He seemed to both remain stationary and waiver all at once, simply sitting and staring at nothing as not a thought ran through his helm and nothing but involuntary reactions made sure his spark beat and his intakes venting.

Ratchet crossed the kitchen slowly, the way he had seen the same young mech approach a white-tailed deer one of their last years on earth. He moved like one afraid of causing fear in another, hands up in a non-intimidating position and pedesteps quiet. He crouched slowly, thanking the diety above that he didn't creak and startle the younger mech. Of course, he wasn't sure if Prowl was in a comatose state or not, but just to be certain, he barely lay a hand on the mech's shoulder.

"Prowl." Ratchet spoke softly, voice no more than a whisper as he leaned closer. "Prowl, can you hear me?"

A vent cycled through the smaller's ventilation shafts, a quiet click of shutters as they blinked once beneath their cover. A small movement in the neck cables brought the blank tan face to his, still unseeing as he shuttered again.

A small noise left Prowl's vocalizer. He swallowed reflexively before trying again. "Ratchet?" the mech asked quietly, a tremor going through the voice as his unfocused optics began to bring in a clear face. "What-"

"Easy." the medic shushed. "Don't worry, you just blacked out." It was a lie, Prowl had never lost conciousness. Lieing had become too easy, vorns of practise made it so. "Does your helm hurt?"

A black hand rose to touch the back of his chevroned helm, face finally morphing into an emotion - confusion - as he looked questionly at Ratchet. "Did I hit it?"

"Can you remember anything?" he answered the question with a question, more of an avoidance than a lie.

A flicker or fear crossed the befuddled face, visor widening slightly. "Where are we?"

And, like so many times before, he painstakingly explained that they were on Cyberton, that Prowl had moved into the Sanctuary just an orn ago, they had taken care of his garden and washed up, and Prowl was preparing for company.

The black and khaki and gold mech tilted his helm. "Company?"

Ratchet was given no time to answer as a loud pounding sounded on the door. Had he been new to this experience, Ratchet would have feared the knocker would put a fist right through the stupid paper door, but being the vet he was he only smiled. "Looks like he's here already. Think you can get up?"

The smaller bot paused a moment before nodding, accepting the hand offered him to rise before heading to the door. Ratchet followed suit, refraining from rubbing his sore knee-joint aching from kneeling and crouching.

"Yes?" Prowl asked as he popped a helm out the door, sliding it wider and allowing Ratchet a good view of the 'surprise' guest.

The bot was mainly white, small highlights of blue and red and tan striping him here and there. An Autobot insignia was painted onto his chest, the three stripes of an Elite Guardsman embroidering it. A visor hid the mech's optics, hiding the sadness the way his smile did the pain in his spark.

"Hey." the mech greeted himself, quickly holding out a hand. "Name's Jazz."

"Prowl." the still smaller mech offered hesitantly, just as carefully taking the hand and giving it a small shake. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

"That'll be my fault." a voice spoke from behind, Ratchet stepping forwards. "I asked Jazz to come by. He's an old friend of mine; an Autobot just like us. And a ninja, just like you."

Prowl eyed the newcomer warily a moment before accepting Ratchet's word as good enough. He stepped aside, "Won't you come in?"

Jazz thanked him before stepping inside, venting in relief as he removed himself from baking in the sun. "Sure is hot today." his words were spoken carefully, nearly carefree yet with the emphasis of one focusing on every word out of habit and hiding something of equal habit.

Ratchet only nodded in agreement before turning to Prowl. "I asked Jazz to stay with you for awhile as I've got some things to do."

Had either of the other mechs known any better, they would have said Prowl pouted. As they knew better, Prowl only sulked with his servos crossed over his chassis. "I don't need to be watched like a sparkling. I'm a grown mech."

"A grown mech who passed out awhile ago." Ratchet pointed out. Jazz showed no alarm, aware of the evident lie. "I just asked him to sit with you awhile. I promise, he's completely trustworthy."

Prowl only remained in his sulk, servos wrapping tighter as his face scrunched up. "I am entirely able of caring for myself."

"It's just for a little while." Ratchet promised. "Besides, what's the worst that can happen? You make a new friends?" He snorted at Prowl's perturbed face.

Jazz smiled softly. "I'm really not a bad mech. I live just up the path a little ways."

Prowl only eyed the bot with slightly less wariness than before. He vented lightly. "I suppose a little visit wouldn't hurt..." 'Much' was left unsaid.

"Good." Ratchet beamed, patting the mech on the back before taking his leave. "I'll be down tomorrow."

"There's no need." Prowl returned.

Ratchet only grinned. Prowl wouldn't remember this tomorrow. Prowl wouldn't remember any of this. Not Ratchet's promise of return, not Prowl's 'introduction' to Jazz, not the time they had shared in the garden, not moving, not the fact that he'd lived on Cybertron for two vorns and eleven groons, not that he'd had a terrible accident, not the sparkbreak he put his friend's through on an only basis - absolutely nothing. He'd remember his own name and a few memories; that was it.

Prowl turned from the doorway as Ratchet stepped out into the heat, scanning the stranger once more before venting. "Ratchet can be quite overprotective at times." he huffed. "I should apologize for his wasting your time."

"It's no trouble." Jazz promised with a smile so trustworthy and sure it was impossible not to believe him. "I had nothing better to do today and was looking for a distraction."

"I'm afraid you won't find much of one here." Prowl stated, stepping towards the kitchen before pausing in hesitation. "I don't even know what I was supposed to be doing..."

A soft hand touched his shoulder, impossibly soft beneath a hard palm made so with hard work and labor. It rested on his shoulder as if it had been made for it, the digits and pad a perfect fit for his armor. "Why don't I help fill the time? You see, I'm a bit of a story writer."

The mere mention of literature sparked Prowl's interest, his love of learning and books and data-pads overriding any caution he had about the mech. "Really?" he asked. "What about?"

"It's a bit difficult to explain." Jazz started, leading Prowl through the home and the smaller mech not even realizing this stranger shouldn't know the layout of his house. Nor should have Ratchet, for that matter. "Why don't we sit down here and I'll read some to you?"

He had led Prowl to a small room, one he had not even realized was part of the home. It was a small, screened in back porch that let in just enough light to make it cheery while filtering out a fair amount of the terrible heat. A potted plant - a spindly spider plant - grew green and strong in a corner while a potted crystal of orange and purple germinated in another corner. Two chairs sat side by side, a cushion for each. Both pads were well worn with use, and both chairs had curved legs to allow them to tip back and forth as one wished. Jazz seated himself in the one to the far right, closest the screened edge of the back porch and on the blue padded chair. Prowl seated himself in the other one, the one with the green padding.

The quiet, whining hum of a subspace warbled as Jazz reached into his chassis and withdrew a gray pad, scratched and worn with age and use yet clean. He pressed a small button on the bottom, onlining a blank title page. He swiped the screen, flipping the page to the first lined 'paper' filled with his scrawl.

"What's the name of your story?" Prowl asked quietly, having caught sight of the blank screen when it had been first turned on. "And is it a true story?"

Jazz gave a little nod. "It's true, all right. Every word of it."

"Is it about you?" Prowl dared to ask, refraining from skimming the turned away pad.

Another nod, smaller than the first. "Parts of it. There's another bot in it, a very important bot. And he just so happens to have the same name as you."

"Prowl?" the smaller mech asked in mild surprise. "What a coincidence."

A small, breathy chuckle left Jazz's vocalizer. "Yeah." he vented. "Coincidence."

"But you didn't tell me." Prowl pressed, unaware that Jazz had fallen silent for a moment. "What is your book's title?"

Jazz's helm titled to the side, a puzzling expression crossing his face as he thought. "I don't know." he admitted after a few kliks. "I've only ever called it my Data-Pad. Maybe, if you listen," he tried, "you can help me find one?"

Prowl nodded in agreement, settling himself back into the chair in anticipation of the promised tale. Jazz swiped the screen again, the bright page having fallen dark in the time it had been left alone. He took a deep vent, and started.

"Once upon a time-"

A chuckle stopped him, a grin crossing his face as he glanced up towards the black, gold, and tan mech. "What?"

"Once upon a time?" Prowl lifted an optic ridge. "I thought you said this was a true story. It sounds like a fairytale instead."

Jazz only remained smiling. "It gets better, I promise. Now, hush now and let me read."

"Very well." Prowl relented, settling back again to let Jazz begin.

Jazz gave a firm nod, looking down at the written page. "Once upon a time, there were two mechs-"

* * *

Author's Note - I know, bad Chromia, I shouldn't be working on another story. But, as Praxian has fallen under a dry spell and Silence is slow going (Elementary is the only story really working for me now) I had to get this plot out of my head. I had it long before I'd even heard of the movies '40 First Dates' and 'The Notebook', although the latter gave me the idea for the title months ago. This story has had years to stew in my mind, and now it must be purged. This will be slow, perhaps not as slow as Praxian or Silence, but slower than Elementary - my love child/ monster of epic proportions - but slow-ish. A second chapter is in the making and the entire thing has been outlined.

Let me know if I should continue this, or else updates will be slower.

And, all us writers know how well we stick to outlines.

Please review. Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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**Warnings - Cockiness, Cybertronian swearing.**

**Disclaimer - I own nothing. Nothin' attal. Not a bit. Zilch. Absolutely nothing. What I own is naught. I make no money, no dough, no moo-lah, no currency, no coinage in the writing of this double fictional work. **

**Chapter Ratings - T - see warnings.**

**Characters this chapter - Prowl, Jazz, Yokotron, mentions of Warpath.**

**Chapter Summary - Prowl is taken in, back story, arguments, debates, skirmishes, quarrels, stubbornness, juvenile delinquency. Yokotron begins to work out the tangled knots that is Prowl. Jazz is Jazz. **

* * *

"It's not my war!" the impossibly young voice shouted, spunk and rebellion flowing through him like energon in his tubes. Anger was evident in his voice, a toughness built up through sparkbreak and abandonment making his so sure movements cockier than he really felt.

He watched from the shadows, a skilled ninja merely lending his Sensei a hand when suddenly all Pit broke loose. He could read the body language of the jet black, khaki, and gold nugget colored bot below as well as his Master and Teacher in front of the mech below. The young mech was terrified, spunky and brave, but stupid and scared like any young mech would be in his case. The visor, offering more than a boost to optics that wouldn't calibrate right, they offered a sense of security. The optics band hid what emotions optics betrayed so easily, they made a bot look older and braver than he really was.

Warpath had left, having just moments ago dragged the young bot in slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He had threatened to drag the youngling into the drafts, literally hauling him into battle and military life. Warpath would have, too, had Prowl not trespassed upon the dojo and stolen. The mech hidden amongst the rafters chuckled to himself. He would have liked to see the young mech's face as he tossed open drawers and chests to find, not coinage or currency, but scrolls and the occasional weapon. A few of those had been snitched - a pair of nunchucks and a small blade with a gold etched, jeweled handle probably to be sold on some black market.

It was this young bot's thievery that had save him from boot-camp with a gun shoved in his hands and placed on the front lines as cannon fodder. His own lack of scruples, the will to survive and the coding of self-preservation overruling any moral ethics he had in him, was what had saved him.

Warpath had left, Sensei Yokotron using his right as both a cyber-ninja and the one trespassed against to hold the young mech at his will, either to hold charges and punish him as he saw fit or let him go.

"-if you can reach the door-" Yokotron was saying, and Jazz up above smirked. The old 'give 'em an easy task and then shock them' trick. _Heh, classic._

Prowl looked towards the door and back at the old mech, cleverly disguised as frail and weak, and grinned. His optics band flashed in what he tried to show as cockiness but giving off a more relived glint. He snorted, having already turned down the elder mech's kind offer to train and teach him with a crude comment.

"See ya."

The bot turned on his pedes an ran, an instinctual flight he had learned after vorns and vorns of snitching. Energon and jewelry, goods and credits, he took off like a Seeker to the air as he chased down his fancy of 'freedom'.

Jazz knew what to expect, but the looks on Prowl's face as he smacked into a solid blur of colors said opposite. He fell on his aft with a grunt, sharp denta gritting as the obvious shock traveled up his spinal struts and to his helm. His hands flailed behind him to keep him at least sitting, the fear flashing through his hidden optics once more as he stared into the calm face of the Sensei.

"How did you- I - you couldn't have - could you?" Prowl babbled stupidly, unaware he was even accepting the warped hand to haul him to his pedes. It looked an easy task, even to Jazz with his areal view. The tiny youngling was scrawny and gangly, his pedes and servos too big for his body much as the visor was for his face. The little thing didn't even look like he weighed anything more than his armor.

Jazz almost laughed aloud, breaking his own cover, as Yokotron magically pulled a broom out of thin air and handed it to the youngling, making him clean up the mess had had made of a fallen chiffarobe and the broken glass and paper-like substance used for the walls in his break-in.

He clambered from his hiding spot, silently hopping from rafter to rafter until he could slide through the open top of the ceiling, dropping into the hallway before his Sensei. Yokotron didn't start as he waited for Jazz to rise, his kind optics troubled and relaxed face drawn.

"I sense a strong spirit in that one." Sensei Yokotron spoke lowly, low enough for the grumbling silhouette opposite the paper wall to miss. It appeared he was strangling the broom, kicking it about, instead of sweeping.

"An' anger." Jazz added just as quietly. "Practically an' aura all about 'im."

The low muttering besides their own broke off into a sharp clatter, the black shadow of the broom flying across the screen and the unmistakable sound of tearing as it struck the paper-wall. A sharp intake and scurrying pedes sounded as the younger mech left alone within hurried to the destruction he has caused. Jazz could see a few inches of the broom sticking out of the corner of the wall before it was jerked back.

"Oh, no." a babbling keen sounded. "No, no, no... Please, just-" Prowl broke himself off as the corners of the torn paper were held together, released, and fluttered apart again. Another attempt to fuse the paper molecules together by holding them only succeeded in causing it to tear more.

A pounding of pedes as panic set in, the beeping of a control panel to try and unlock the door to slide it. An angry beep echoed into the hall where Jazz and Yokotron were still standing. Jazz stepped forward, set on barging in and stopping the young mech before he could escape, but a gold and white hand halted him.

"Wait." Yokotron said softly.

Jazz fell still again, another set of angry beeps signaled a bad code being declined. A groan, a few breems of typing, and a merry ding as some line of code or another was accepted. A muttered, "I'm outta here', and a grunt as he tried to slide away the door. Of course, the only thing not paper or cardboard was the entrance door, and of course it was still locked.

"What did you do?" Jazz whispered with interest, trying to keep the entertainment out of his voice.

"Simply rigged the door to accept only my own password and nothing else." Yokotron stated nonchalantly. "He seems to have a rudimentary knowledge of hacking, getting past my first firewalls."

Jazz shook his helm. "O' course 'e does. He's gotta hack in an' outta the places he breaks inta."

After a klik or so more of the young mech trying to break out, all fell silent. Not the click nor a clack of the keypad frantically being hacked, no more beepings of acceptance or declining, no more anything. Except, surprising Jazz more than the experienced Sensei, a quiet sob. Nothing more than a sniff, a simple hitch of the intakes, but so much coming from the cocky aft. A sharp crack rang out, followed by a hiss of pain as the young mech's foot hit the console's base.

"This isn't fair." he growled to himself, entirely unaware of his eavesdroppers."This isn't fraggin' _fair_!" A soft huff was heard, a quiet thunk of metal hitting the floor as he sunk to his pedes, and a scrape as those pedes were tucked in.

Jazz hesitated, glancing towards the silhouette of a distraught youngling in the fetal position, and his Sensei quietly asking him to hold his peace for just awhile longer, his derma never moving but his optics speaking clearly enough.

A breem ticked by, then two and three, until five had slid away. No burst of sobbing, no rants of anger, no demands he be released; simply the self-comfort of a young child abandoned for far too long. Jazz wondered if this youngling even knew how to cry, how to trust, or how to accept anything he hadn't come across by his own means. Prowl seemed to be, emotionally, a sparkling in a frame made for a much older youngling. He wondered how old Prowl was, perhaps he was barely more than a sparkling simply forced to grow up much too fast.

His thoughts came to a screeching halt, slamming on the breaks and colliding into one another in a jumble of mangled musings as a soft movement came from within. A shuffle, a frame rising to his pedes, the clatter of a broom being lifted, and the gentle brushing of a broom being pulled across the floor.

_Ccchhhsss-Chhhhhsss-Chhhhsss._

Jazz nearly started, having been watching the youngling finally begin his task with a dejected hang of the helm and an obvious heavy spark, as a hand touched him.

"Let him finish the room before bringing him up for evening meal." Yokotron said quietly. He pointed a long digit towards the tear in the wall. "And pretend not to notice that."

Jazz's derma plating quirked up, his frame instinctually straightening as he bowed deeply at the waist. "Yes, Sensei." By the time he had risen, onlining his optics band, the hall was empty.

* * *

His optics were hungry; more so was his tank. It was empty, bubbling and grinding and churning nauseously within at the lack of anything substantial. He was seated at a table, both terms 'seated' and 'table' used loosely as the table seemed to consist of a barely elevated slab and seats were made of thin cushions on the floor.

But the seats and the floor and the tiny table didn't matter, though. What mattered were the bots seated on either side of him and the sparkling cube of energon before. He wanted it, badly, Jazz could tell. There was a distinct tremble in his servos as the youngling held himself back, terrified of what might be in that cube before him yet unable to completely dismiss the idea that it was entirely safe. This wasn't stealing, taking something he knew wasn't poisoned as nobot expected their own cube to be swiped. This was a gift, something he had to accept.

Yokotron set his own cube of blue down, optics firmly planted on the young one the way a guard watched a valuable. Of course, Prowl probably looked at is as a parole officer and the accused. Jazz barely had time to cover a snort at that fleeting fancy, quickly taking a sip of his own cube to cover the grin. The youngling didn't budge, optics darting between the two mechs, the cube, and searching for the nearest escape - of which he was finding none.

"Hey," Jazz started, nearly startling the black and gold mech out of his armor, "Ah promise ya, it ain't poisoned."

Prowl snorted, optic band dull from lack of energy yet bright with observance. "Yeah?" he asked with a cock of his helm. "And how do I know to take your word for it?"

Jazz shrugged. "Ah dunno. All Ah know is that it ain't poisoned, and it'll be an awful waste ta simply let it sit there."

The optics widened beneath their too-big band, eyeing the cube under a new light. Would these two bots really toss out a cube of energon simply because he wouldn't drink it, or simply leave it there to spoil for the same reason?

A soft smile was shared by the two mechs, one with his lips and one with his ocean blue optics, as a trembling hand reached forward and carefully lifted the cube. Prowl observed it, looking for flecks or flakes or an odd color that might reveal something amiss, and sniffed it for an odd odor. It appeared clear, the correct color of blue, smelled the way fresh energon did when newly harvested, and the correct tingly feeling traveled up his servos from the raw, electric power of the energon.

Hesitantly, Prowl dared to taste it. He had barely lifted the cube, glossa only just touching the liquid, before he hurriedly put it back and pushed it away. His face was contorted in disgust, olfactory wrinkled and chassis starting to pant in fear he had honestly been given something to do away with him.

"Ah'm tellin' ya-"

"You're lying." Prowl snapped, eyeing the cube exactly the way one would had it been spiked with a vial of Cosmic Rust. "It is poisoned. No cube I've ever had, spoiled or not, has ever tasted like _that_."

Yokotron, having remained silent for the majority of the meal, found his glossa as Prowl turned to glare at him. "Simple mineral additives for growth and nutrition." He explained.

"Ha." Prowl snarked, turning his glare on the cube. "Nothing that tastes like slag can be good for you."

"Language." Yokotron came as close to snapping as Jazz had ever heard him, a sharp voice of authority spiking his tone into something not cruel but not allowing tolerance for delinquency.

Of course, being under his own, faulty authority, Prowl didn't respond to it exactly as Jazz would have hoped or Yokotron would have liked. "You can't tell me what to do, old mech. You're not the boss of me."

It was an old argument, stemming from the first strands of rebellion ever sprouted on the planet and growing on in the spark of each bot who did not head authority with the proper respect it demanded. And, being a mech of higher age than most, Yokotron had heard it multiple times before and knew just how to respond.

"While you are under my roof, drinking my fuel-"

"Sweeping your floors." Prowl muttered beneath his breath, servos crossed over his chassis as he turned away.

Yokotrons optics flashed, unseen by Prowl as Jazz mentally battened down the hatches. "-you will do as you are told and listen to authority."

Prowl turned back to the table, a scoffing pout on his face and a sarcastic gleam in his optics as he confronted the older, wiser mech. "Yeah? And what if you tell me to do something like kill a bot? You're both ninjas - _assassins_ - Primus only knows what fragged up slag you do in here."

Jazz turned towards his Sensei expectantly with a look that clearly read 'You can't let him treat you like this. Are you really gonna take that from a bot barely one-thousandths of your age?' His optics read the older processor, the mental count to ten before replying.

"You will simply have to trust we would never ask something like that of you." Yokotron replied quietly once he had regained his temper. "And follow your own instincts should you ever be confronted with such."

"Well," Prowl started, "my _instincts_ are telling me to get the fra-heck outta here." Prowl finished with a huff, not even aware he had corrected himself.

Jazz noticed, as did Yokotron, and neither commented. Jazz leaned forward, sliding the cube back towards the youngling. Prowl eyed it suspiciously, the bitter taste of minerals and ores still cluttering his mouth. "Now, ya should probably drink this up. We all know you're starvin', an' there's no point in lettin' it go ta waste."

Prowl swallowed reflexively, looking over the six sides of the cube and the contents within. Really, if he were honest with himself, it hadn't been that bad. It had been more the surprise and unexpected flavor that had thrown him off. Really, if he tried again it probably wouldn't be so bad the second time around. The taste should grow on him, right?

Neither said anything as the cube was hesitantly tasted a second time, an actual sip this time. A pause to make sure his frame had no adverse reactions, and he guzzled it down as instinct kicked in and his empty, grinding, churning tank demanded fuel. The cube was set back down with a hollow clatter, drained completely.

"Can I..." the youngling fidgeted beneath the table, swallowing the last of the taste from his mouth as he looked pleading towards the older bot at the table. "Can I have another?"

A conflict broke out within Yokotron, the logic between knowing the young frame wouldn't be able to handle a large quantity of fuel after going so long without, and crushing the bit of trust Prowl had perhaps started to find. But, if that trust was going to grow it must be tested and tried, not pandered to and stunted.

"Not now." Yokotron decided. "Jazz will show you where you will recharge."

"You mean," Prowl voice was quiet, his frame tense and helm tilted back and away, "I'm staying?"

Jazz snorted lightly, chuckling quietly to not alarm the already on-edge youngling. "Ya don't really think we'd go through so much trouble ta jus' kick ya out, do ya?"

Prowl didn't answer, wary now for new reasons. He didn't say anything as Jazz rose and motioned for the youngster to follow. "Com'mon." he said pleasantly, perhaps a bot impossible to dislike. "Ah'll give ya the grand tour on the way."

Yokotron was silent as Prowl followed, tall for his age yet impossibly nieve. The training of this one would prove most difficult, he could feel it. The ability to learn and intelligence, perhaps even genius, was in him, but a stubbornness too thick for anything to penetrate without much drilling and pounding and force surrounding that beautiful mind.

Yokotron grinned. He hadn't had a challenge like this in a long time.

* * *

The next orn faired quite the same, other than some initial awkwardness Prowl found himself battling as he tried to act like he belonged. If these bots here were going to hold him against his will, being a minor, he couldn't fight them. When he came of age in a few vorns, or at least he thought it was a few vorns, he could take the matter up with the local Enforcers if they tried to hold him prisoner longer.

He was seated at the same spot on the floor at the little table, a cube of the same bitter 'gon in front of him. Both mechs, the white one with a visor like his own and the gold and white one, were seated exactly the same way, where the could keep an optic on him while still conversing between themselves.

They hid any notice of Prowl as he quickly slugged down his cube of energon, the fear of being poisoned far back in his mind as he grabbed the opportunity to fuel. The cube was absorbed in kliks, the clear, empty glass free of even remaining droplets and sticky residue as he placed it on the tabletop. He shook his helm with an air of one who didn't care what one thought of him, optic band staring at a single spot on the wall while the optics beneath darted between the two bots for some kind of reaction.

There was none, other than the much older mech rising to his pedes with a single, fluid, graceful motion and leaving. He returned a moment later with another cube, placing it before the obsidian and gold youth without a word.

Prowl glanced at both uncertainly, lifting an optic ridge. "I thought you said I couldn't have more than one."

"That was last night." Yokotron replied calmly, reclaiming his place. "Today is a new orn."

Jazz bit his bottom derma as Prowl groaned, slumping on the table. "Don't tell me, you're one of those 'cubes always half-full', 'sun's always shining somewhere' kinda bots."

Yokotron didn't even pause before retorting. "And what if I am?" he dared in a voice both demanding and quiet. "Is that such a bad thing?"

"It's simply not _logical_ to be an optimist." Prowl replied, his digits tracing the rim of his cube. Now that the initial hunger of that morning had worn of, he could focus on more than the fuel in front of him.

"Perhaps not." Yokotron agreed. "But, perhaps it is equally illogical to be a firm pessimist. Would it not be best to have a perfect balance of the two?"

"Balance?" Prowl echoed, glancing up from his intent gaze of the condensation sweating glass.

Yokotron smiled. "And that is where your training shall begin. Finish your cube, you will need the energy."

Prowl swallowed once. "Energy? Training? What are you going to do to me?" He received no answer, both mech's annoyingly silent. "No, really, what are you gonna do?"

No answer.

Prowl swallowed a mouthful of the liquid. What was the worst thing to trained Cyber-ninjas could do to him? They were only skilled assassins that could kill him before had so much of thought of screaming, stringing him up by the claws of his digits and leaving him there to hang.

But, they were feeding him. That meant they liked him and wouldn't do something like that to him.

Right?

* * *

Prowl fell onto his mat - an actual slagging mat, because he hadn't slept uncomfortably enough his entire life - with an unsurpressed groan. He knew he was a stupid mech, how could a bot his age ever learn anything educational having evaded every single bot he could and forgoed school for survival? He knew he was uneducated, what he knew was what he had taught himself to read. He didn't know a lot about math or language or history or science or anatomy.

But he _knew_ he didn't have this many places to be sore. It just wasn't logical. Everything, from his inner workings to his very armor ached steadily. Every movement was a fight not to flinch, even his intakes were sore. Prowl was agile, Prowl was quick, Prowl was clever in ways to route escapes and make it look like he had never been there.

And yet, these ninjas took what he had to teach himself to the next level. For joors all he had done was jump from one pedestal to the next, falling a good eighty percent of the time. And what did Yokotron have him do when he fell? Start over, from the very beginning. No matter how far he was into the course, he had to start over from the very beginning. His one given goal was to make it to the end the correct way, following the rules and never touching the ground.

Prowl had jumped, skipping right to the end and trying to hop high enough to look over it. He could not, instead he found out just how dirt tasted when you had nothing to catch you. He tried to scale the tall pole next. He could not. He found out how a pole felt rubbing against your thighs and servos at a high speed and the heat that radiated from it. His armor was still glowing red.

And the sad thing was he hadn't even reached the middle of the course when he decided to do it the right way. Yokotron had to come and stop him, the sun just about to set, and tell him to resume the next day.

From the very beginning.

When Yokotron had come out to get him he had wanted to shout, 'Just what was this supposed to teach me? I've done nothing today except fall and make myself look like an idiot! Just where were you? Hiding somewhere in the shadows and getting a good laugh? I bet you were!'

Instead, he had only the energy to slump down by the table and drink the cube he was handed before following Jazz up to the little room he was given to sleep in. Here he lay now, too tired to try to keep awake and keep guard like he had the night before. Nobot was ever honest, everybot had their own agenda and motives to keep them going. It could have been anything from simply wanting him for work and labor to putting him into an interface ring. So far neither had been hinted at, but it was absolute folly to drop your guard and firewalls even a klik.

Prowl glanced around, groaning again as he pushed himself to his pedes. He couldn't escape, but he could hide. He looked around, spying something big and bulky in the corner. It was too dark to tell what it was, only that it was perfect. He ran to it and hid.

* * *

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

The sound of his metal digits rapping against the support of the doorway was quiet to most, yet echoed strangely loud in the silent halls of the dojo. For a place of peace and meditation, even venting seemed too loud at times. The occasional sparring contests always seemed out of place until one got lost in the motions.

Jazz chuckled to himself as he remembered Prowl's smooth moves of the night before. He really shouldn't laugh, he hadn't been that much better himself when he had first dedicated himself to the Arts. In fact, to be entirely honest, he had been absolutely awful. Prowl had an advantage from his own disadvantages, his lack of anything tangible or material made him sneaky and sly and emotionless calculating. He didn't think it impossible Prowl hadn't run across a rooftop or scrambled up the side of buildings before he had been caught here.

_Not bad for a first day_. Jazz thought to himself as he pushed aside the thin door, not bothering to knock another chorus. Prowl was either still asleep or ignoring him.

"Or gone." Jazz breathed as he entered the room to find it empty. The berthless, chairless, tableless room left no place to hide. Other than the chiffarobe, and he ran to it and tossed it open.

Nothing, nothing except the few scrolls and pads it stored. No little frame playing hide and seek or hiding from his 'captors'.

"Sensei!" Jazz shouted, darting from the room. The only option was that Prowl has snuck out sometime in the night, perhaps through the window. The window was too high for a young bot to jump out safely without threat of damage, meaning Prowl was gone and possibly injured.

The old mech was stirring a small pot on the burner, the spices and minerals each one of them drank simmering with a bittersweet scent. He vented as Jazz relayed to him the empty room and his hunch, turning the burner down to low before calmly following, having said nothing.

He strolled into the room like one would any other room, glancing about with his optics as he remained still and let Jazz open the door to the large cupboard and the slightly open window. He looked down, the far drop worrying to think of if Prowl really had jumped down. Of course, he hadn't. Yokotron was sure of it.

"Prowl." Yokotron called out the name, quietly, not shouting as Jazz had been. He spoke like one would any other in a room. He craned his neck up, looking into the sweeping, sturdy, dark rafters. "Prowl, it is time to wake up."

It wasn't the noise of the voice that woke the young mech, but the gentle droning of it. Like a fly darting to and from a face as it slept, annoying and lulling one out of their rest.

"Hm?" a sleepy voice hummed from above, a bright band onlining the next klik and brightening the shadowy rafters above. A solid thunk sounded as Prowl fell back onto his beam, letting his servo dangle precariously off the edge. "'M trying to sleep..."

"But it is time to rise." Yokotron seemed to argue, seemed to gently chastise. "An entire orn ahead of you, and you simply wish to sleep it away? What would you be if that was all you did?"

"Not so tired." the mumbly voice above spoke into the roof, his digits trailing against the bottom the the beam he rested against, pedes crossed in the air. "Or sore."

Jazz bit his bottom lip, his cheeks hot with embarrassment as he tried not to laugh at his own jumped conclusions and Prowl's sleepy arguments. Yokotron paid him no mind, continuing his efforts of coaxing the youngling down.

"There is fuel prepared to help with your fatigue." he promised. "And I will add another mineral to help loosen your wires and remove the aches in them."

There was a pause, like one debating between themself and the little voice in their helm always against everything you said. He could come down nicely, like a good little mech, and drink the fuel he both wante and needed. Or, he could wait up there and hide until they left and try to escape. These bots still hadn't showed them their interior motives, they still weren't safe to trust.

But waiting and running from ninjas sounded like too much of a task for his sluggish body and tired processor to handle at the moment. He vented heavily, the sound amplified by the curve of the roof, as he flipped himself over and peered down. There was still one question in his mind, one that had been bugging him for the past orn ever since they had taken him in.

"How do you do that, anyways?" he asked, exhaustion leaving his voice and being replaced with insatiable curiosity. "With the crystals and minerals and stuff. How do you know what helps with what, and what'll work and what won't?"

Jazz could see Yokotron's lips twitch, gentle optics softening. "If you come down we can add such information into your lessons today."

"Lessons." Prowl more vented than asked. "Falling off the poles again?"

"Mainly." Yokotron agreed humorously. "Unless you should decide not to fall."

"As if I have a choice." Prowl mumbled to himself, unaware of just how much the roof echoed as he quickly darted across the rafter and to the chiffarobe he had climbed the night before.

He scrambled down, pedes dangling and kicking for leverage as he tried to reach the scrolled top of the storage cupboard. Why hadn't it seemed so far away the night before? But perhaps he had jumped to reach the low hanging beam that seemed impossibly high now? His digits dug into the smooth metal of the rectangular beam, slipping inch by inch as he struggled to just get the tip of his foot on the large piece of furniture. He was slipping faster, and he just knew he'd fall once more before this bots before the orn even started.

Impossibly strong servos wrapped around his waist and pedes, thin and warm and _powerful_. He could feel the energy traveling through them as he released his death-grip on the rafter beam and let himself be lowered, his hands brushing against gold and white armor in his slow decent.

He didn't say anything as his pedes finally touched solid ground, no thank you or brush off of 'I'd have gotten it. I had it.' Instead, he merely looks down and away, the only thing missing from his dejected, humiliated body language was a shuffling of his pede as he refuses to do so in front of others. How dare he need help from them. Of course, he was accepting their food, but that was for his own good. He needed and wanted that fuel, and it was something he could tangibly feel and take and steal if he wanted to.

You can't feel the good-will of one's spark when they helped you, the accomplished feelings they got with assisting others. He couldn't take their help, he couldn't make them. He couldn't rob one of their helpfulness.

It wasn't tangible. It was simply an emotional response. Prowl hated emotion, it clouded judgement and caused incalculable errors. It was the reason he had none, or so he told himself. He got along just fine without sorrow or pain or hurt. Or happiness or joy or compassion.

A digit brushed against Prowl's shoulder, drawing his attention from within himself and back to the real world. Yokotron had patiently waited until the need to keep Prowl from withdrawing completely into himself lessened compared to the need to get him accustomed to working with others.

"Come." Yokotron spoke. "It is time to prepare for morning meal, and you can help."

It was a blessing beyond compare that Prowl hadn't yet realized the reason he was being kept so busy, even the little while he had been here, was to keep his hands out of trouble and his olfactories out of places it shouldn't be. The longer he was kept moving, tasks of little or great importance, errands and chores, training and lessons, the better. If he went to bed too tired to even think of escape, the more open Prowl was to accept Yokotron's teachings.

It was a good sign when Prowl didn't argue and followed. He didn't agree, but he was following.

It was one step in the right direction. One step, and the rest were sure to follow.

* * *

"Is that how you met him?"

"Hm?" Jazz hummed, looking up from his pad and into the visor of the other. "Ah'm sorry?"

"Is that how you met him, this bot that has my name?" the seated mech asked again. "This Prowl?"

"Oh." Jazz paused, optics full of reminice as he pondered a moment. "Yeah, Ah guess it is."

Prowl gave a single nod, quite pleased with himself for coming to the correct conclusion. His pedes pressed against the ground, the chair leaning back, and released to rock forward. A pleasant _creak-creak creak-creak creak-creak_ filled the closed in porch as Jazz turned the page, settling back to continue his story.

* * *

Author's Note - To be honest, I've never seen any of '50 First Dates' (I thank You Know Who You Are for correcting me on that) more than the first 20 minutes, and my only knowledge of 'The Notebook' is that it contains a notebook and Alzheimer's. Not so sure on that last point...

The rest of the story will be written much like this chapter - jumping right into the backstory as if you were hearing the story yourself or watching it, and then a pause as Prowl and Jazz interrupt the flow and reading. The chapters will also time-skip. Here Prowl's just integrating himself, next with be a few years down the road where Prowl isn't so awkward but still green in Cyber-zu and ninja-ing.

Self-beta'd. All mistakes are mine and mine alone... Or the Government's fault. I blame the IRS for any missing words and letters. ;) (Just kidding.)

ALSO- TO ALL MY READERS/REVIEWERS OF ELEMENTARY

Elementary is far from a dry spell and still being written many chapters ahead. (The last one was 25 I belice and I am all the way on 34 and still going strong). I had discovered that, if I post one Elem. each week I will have enough (without writing any more) to stretch all the way to the second week of September. As I will still be writing, and now I have this story to work on, the postings will be each within a week of each other. (Week one-Elem. Week two-Data Week three-Elem. . ad nauseum)

It will give me more time to proofread and write especially as I start up a business, finish up high school, and still graduate a year early.

Please enjoy and review.

HAPPY FOURTH TO ALL MY FELLOW AMERICANS!

Happy 30th Anniversary of Transformers! What's more patriotic than a bunch of alien robots trying to constantly murder one another in a blood soaked feud that had long since gone past a stalemate?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

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**Warning - Cybertronian Swearing**

**Disclaimer - If I owned Transformers: Animated Prowl would still be alive and there would not be such large plot holes. (Like, whatever happened to Black Arachnia and Waspinator? Where did Sari come from? How did the protoform get there? When did Prowl and Jazz bond? Did they want kids? How many?)**

**Chapter Rating - T, as per norm. **

**Characters - Prowl, Yokotron, implied Jazz, Jazz at the end.**

**Chapter Summary - A typical day(orn), Yokotron's woes, Prowl is cheeky, Prowl is clever, Prowl sobers up. Prowl commits a grave error. **

**Units or Time, for your convenience - Vorn-year, Groon-month, Quartex-week, Orn-day, joor-hour, Breem-minute, Klik-second, Nano-sec(ond)-.123456789 of second (Really frickin' fast)**

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"Prowl!"

Yokotron vented in irritation. Yes, actual irritation. For a mech of his age, his patience tried for so long, he was allowed to be impatient and annoyed every once in a while.

Three vorns had passed since that scrawny, rebellious youngling had been swept in off of the streets and transplanted into the rich soil of the dojo to bloom and grow. And grow he had, proper nutrition and rest and care the exact formula need for Prowl to sprout right up. Of course, having had so many developmental years tarnished and stained with starvation, he had been severely stunted; what was left of his growing period left him no taller than Sensei Yokotron.

Jazz had left nearly a vorn ago, having set out on a self-exploration mission to find who he was and where he belonged. His training was over, yet until he discovered his place in the world he would never become a master. The rooms were quieter without Jazz's merry laugh to fill them, his stealthy pranks on Prowl, and his overall cheerful self filling the rooms.

But, quieter was not silence, and one mech gone was not an empty home. The ruckus of a young mech, a youngling still trying to fit in, took up a fair majority of the time. Prowl had matured, as any bot in the right conditions would, but his past still made him cold and unfeeling and crafty. He still had yet to surprise Yokotron as Jazz use to Prowl with a sneak attack, but the youngling knew he would someorn.

"Coming, Sensei." the call was returned from above, Prowl's favorite hiding and sleeping places still the elevated beams of the rafters. But now, with the little training he had, he could get down on his own without a step-stool or Yokotron's assistance.

The mech dropped gracefully to the floor, the training he had enough to amplify the natural flexibility and grace he had always had. The elderly mech waited with a raised optic ridge as Prowl rose from his crouch and quickly bowed.

"Prowl," Yokotron started slowly, "what were you doing up there?" 'Again' went unsaid, but implied.

"Nothing." the young mech replied innocently, as innocently as a teenager returning home late for curfew.

Yokotron shuttered his optics, slowly counting to ten before continuing. "Have you finished writing your-"

"Right here." Prowl cut him off, fishing into his subspace for a stack of data-pads. Translating ancient scrolls from Old Cybertronian, a long dead language, was a most difficult and painstaking task. Prowl had been given ten pads to work with, whereas Jazz's first batch had only been three. Jazz had finished them in just over a quartex, and Prowl had finished his own in just under one orn.

Yokotron had given them to Prowl late afternoon the orn before. He withheld a vent, taking the pads one by one and skimming them. _Absolutely flawless._ Not a mistake worth mentioning.

"I finished them last night." Prowl stated, unaware of the enormous task he had defeated. "Was that all you wanted me to do?"

"This will suffice, for the moment." Yokotron replied. If he were honest, he would say that there were none left to be done. Prowl had read, translated, rewrote, and studied most every data-pad and ancient scroll Yokoton had, forcing the elderly mech to seek help from others from time to time in finding new literature to hand the eager mind. "Have you gone over your katas?"

"I did them this morning." Prowl huffed.

"All of them?"

Prowl nodded. Of course, Prowl would take three orns worth or training and positions and exercises and do them all in a joor or two. "And I did my chores: I swept the halls and walk, I tended the crystals, I lit the incense, and I meditated for exactly twenty-five breems."

A smile tugged at th edges of the Sensei's mouthplates. "Exactly?"

"Approximately twenty-five point six-oh-two breems." Prowl vented, spouting the numbers reflexively. "I've done _everything_ I'm supposed to."

_And all before noon..._ Yokotron couldn't help but think with a pang of annoyance. Prowl was clever - too clever. It was difficult to keep his hands busy and out of trouble when every task he was given was done to the best of his ability and in a fraction of the time it was supposed to take. Prowl did not slack, he simply did and did quickly and well.

"Prowl, come with me." Yokotron said, motioning fluidly towards the doorway. "We will meditate together before mid-orn meal."

"Isn't it early?" Prowl sighed, obediently following the white and gold mech anyways.

"There is a matter of importance I must discuss with you." the elderly mech replied calmly. "And it would be best to speak of it when all else has been taken care of."

"Yes, Sensei." Prowl answered, sinking to his pedes a moment later besides his teacher, inhaling the spicy tang of the incense and his optics shuttered to the world in deep reflection.

* * *

_Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh-chink!_

The six-sided star made of blades whizzed through the air, implanting itself in the metallic ground with a screech instead of it's target - a large board doodled on with great circles in a self-made dart board.

"Scrap." Prowl muttered to himself, rushing forward to scoop up the one imbedded _shruiken _and the one simply laying on the ground. The magnetic base within the middle of both crecent-moon devices clicked at his palm. If he learned to throw these right, he could cause a boomerang effect and get them back each time.

He went back to his starting point, next to the dojo-wall with his back towards it to avoid tearing the walls, and carefully aimed at his target. He had to throw his shruiken far over the crystal gardens germinating an abundance of the minerals Sensei used in fuel.

"Careful..." he vented to himself. "Careful..." He pulled back his servo, feeling the sharp blades press into his soft palm-pad. He had practiced long and hard with throwing knifes, he had mastered those in three orns. He just needed to get the feel of these new weapons and he'd master them as well.

He had come to the dojo with these very tools on him, an upgrade he had never waited for and simply always had - later to be removed until Sensei felt him ready. They bore no markings of who had owned them before, no scratches or wear showed on their polished, staggered blades, nor any previous signs or own or use. But, Yokotron agreed, they had to have come from somewhere.

_Perhaps my creator's._ Prowl though as he tossed the first, sending strong electro-magnetic pulses out through his hands to summon it back. He'd practice catching it first before going back to the target. _Perhaps my sire used these in battle. Maybe he used them against a deadly assassin, protecting my carrier from-_

He cut that line of thought off abruptly. Maybe the shruiken had belonged to the mech or femme that had helped sire or carry him, but they did nothing more than donate genetic coding and CNA to create him. He had no Sire or Creator, simply a donor and surrogate. Whatever bot had pinned the throwing-stars to him before abandoning him, he didn't care. If he never met them, that was fine by him. It was probably better that way, as hate and fury boiled inside him every time he thought of whatever bot had given birth to him and the other that had merged with him. If they were still out there, he wanted to kill them. There was no excuse for leaving a youngling - _sparkling _- like that.

None whatsoever.

Prowl grunted sharply as he tossed the shruiken away from him, as if the metal burned him the way his spark did with the loathe towards his birth-parents. His intakes hitched, a yelp sticking in his vocalizer as the emotion blinded action caused the fourth blade of the shruiken to slice through the delicate pad of his palm, energon and oil mingling as it oozed through his closed fist.

The pain was momentarily forgotten as glassy squeals rang out, the fibrous shatterings of numerous crystal tops being sheared off by the anger powered toss. The prismed tops lay glittering in the sunlight, loosing their coloring as the hot sun overhelm burned them. Liquid in shades of pink, red, blue, yellow, and green gurgled up and hardened like tree sap exposed to atmosphere.

"Oh, no." Prowl groaned, pushing away the throb of his hand to run in the last direction he had seen the ornery shruiken head.

He found it, its sharp tip embedded in the thickest and largest crystal in the garden. Prowl would have felt proud, the strength needed to throw the crude weapon enough to penetrate the thick shell of the old crystal was incalculable. But no pride was even thought of as he fell to his knees, fear flooding through him and swimming through his veins, as he gazed at his throwing-star thickly stuck in Sensei Yokotron's prized, rare crystal of black and yellow. This type of crystal was especially hard to grow, and the climate and care for it had to be just so.

Prowl knew first hand, he had tried to grow one himself. It had been the one task he had ever failed at, the crystal dying before it even started to bloom.

Prowl scrubbed his hand over his mouth, intaking harshly. "Sensei's going to _kill_ me!"

If there was ever a moment to run, it was now. Leaving had never crossed his mind a second time three groons established at the dojo, Jazz and Yokotron just as kind and caring as the orn they had taken him in. If they were hiding something, they did it well as Prowl had yet to uncover some dubious inside motive.

But, destroying a rare, expensive crystal might just prove how violent a ninja could be whan angered. Yokotron was old, but he was far from frail and helpless.

His optics darted frantically towards the tall fence that surrounded the peaceful, quiet dojo. _Not for long, if Sensei gets wind of this. _ He could easily scale it and take off. If he got a head start Yokotron wouldn't be able to track him. And, with Jazz gone, it made his chances of being found just that much lower.

His optics traveled back to the crystal, it's yellow and black already fading into a sickly, jaundiced shade and a milky gray. A black, oily sap was beginning to squeeze out around the cracks the shruiken had made and dripped over the star and ground. It slid down the crystal, leaving a streaky, slimy trail. The sight of crystal fluid sickened Prowl more than the scent of the oil and blood flowing from his hand.

Sensei would be so ashamed of him. He probably would slap Prowl across the face. He would ground him, punish him with extra chores and scrolls and katas. He would take fuel and energon away from him, maybe for quartexes on end. He would forever hate Prowl the way Prowl hated those who had created him.

And yet, each variable seemed better than running away and disappointing Yokotron, leaving the old mech all alone. Suddenly, Prowl felt very foolish. He knew his sensei better than that.

Yokotron would be ashamed if he left, running away from a punishment he deserved and fessing up. It was the cowardly thing to do. Yokotron might punish him, but he would be fair. Any extra chores wouldn't be tyrannical or like a cruel master over his slave. It would be a difficult task, long and tedious and boring to show and let Prowl think over the error of his ways. He would perhaps ground Prowl to his room for a few joors, maybe an orn, to think over what he had done. Maybe he would send Prowl to bed without his supper, but he wouldn't starve the youngling.

And never, _ever_, would Sensei Yokotron ever strike Prowl out of anger. A light ding or dent might be placed in his thin armor during a practice sparring match, but the old mech had never so much as yelled at him even when Prowl had known he deserved it. He hadn't even made Prowl do anything more than sweep the floors and take fuel the night he had stolen from him, that night ever present in his memory.

Prowl took a deep vent, rubbing his servo with his hand as he shuttered his optics to the destruction he had caused and turned on his heels. He knew what he had to do, and he knew where to find Yokotron. The old mech was kneeling before the fire-pot of burning incense, making peace between his mind and body. It was a common place for Yokotron to be throughout the orn, the elderly mech often had a lot on his mind to straighten out.

Prowl took a vent, palms clammy behind his back as he clasped his wrists. "Sensei."

The old mech didn't start, only took a calming vent to separate his mind and body before slowly rising to his pedes. He bowed deeply at the waist to the cauldron, clasping his hands behind his back as he turned. His optic ridges raised in alarm at the state his young student was.

Prowl had brown oil and blue energon smeared over his chin and lips, drying in the heat. His one servo, too, had sticky goop much resembling the blood on his face, and his lower pedes were splattered with an almost black resin.

It took Yokotron a moment to realize Prowl had been speaking this entire time, rapid-fire and haphazardly in a blabbering, rambling pattern of speech. "-I didn't mean it, I swear, but my mind started to wander and I threw it too-"

"Whatever is the matter?" Yokotron cut him off quickly, the rushed speech too much for his old audios to separate and make reason from. He quickly stepped forward, placing a hand on the youngling's obsidian shoulder. "Where are you injured?"

"Just my hand." Prowl hurriedly exposed the shredded palm before darting it back. "But, what I'm trying to say is-"

He stopped abruptly again as his wrist was caught, digits spread to reveal the entire gaping wound. It was a little nastier than Prowl had originally thought, his entire hand sticky and stiff from the drying energon. It felt heavy and thick, as if every digit didn't have a joint and were instead simply wide sticks stuck to a piece of wood. The sensitive palm throbbed anew as he finally saw the injury he had inflicted on himself, the weeping gash still leaking its concoction of lifefluids.

Prowl felt his helm become fuzzy, a woozy feeling upsetting his tank and making him waver in place. He was under the impression he was being led from the meditation room and to the kitchen, and he was sitting on some large stool for Yokotron to clean the deep cut.

The Cyber-zu master pressed a warm, wet flannel to the palm, cleaning away a majority of the dirt and energon and oil. It was deep, but not alarming, a simple patch needed to cover the middle of Prowl's hand until his self-repair could kick in.

Yokotron set aside the blue-stained cloth, skilfully eyeing his work before releasing the thin wrist. "How did you injure yourself?" he inquired gently. "I know you are too skilled for such a mistake."

Prowl hung his helm. "I allowed myself to become distracted." he admitted lowly. "My judgement became clouded and I let my emotions get in the way. I," Prowl swallowed thickly," I got angry and must have held the star too tightly, and when I threw it it got caught on my hand."

Yokotron gave a single nod. "Your wound shall heal in time."

"But that's not it." Prowl almost pleaded, begging for his Sensei's attention yet afraid to get it. "I-I didn't come to you because I'd hurt myself. I... you see," he vented sharply, "it got away from me and broke a lot of the crystals in your garden - the edible ones we grow for food. Just the tips were taken off, so they're okay, but-but the yellow and black one in the corner still has the shruiken stuck in it. I," Prowl swallowed again, glossa darting over his dry derma and tasted the metallic tang of blood, "I couldn't get it out."

Sensei's face had fallen in his hasty explanation, silent and only nodding once in reply. "I see." he said slowly. "Show me."

It wasn't a cruel demand, just a simple request. Prowl slid from his stool, his knees gelatinous as he quietly showed his teacher the path of his destruction. Yokotron paused just a moment, observing the edible crystal beds. Prowl had been correct, it was just the tips, and new ones would germinate in due time. The crystal stalks themselves were already self-repairing. The prized yellow and black crystal, on the other hand-

Yokotron knelt next to the damage, tracing his digits in the hard resin already solidified and the color of burnt, charred amber. A sort of shimmery, translucent glass with a slight jelly like feel if he scrapped it.

"This is quite serious." Yokotron finally spoke, skilfully twisting his digits around five of the six star-prongs and yanking it out. Prowl must have been thinking very hard and very emotionally to have tossed the shruiken all the way across the yard, shearing crystal tips, and still having enough kinetic energy left over to dig that deep into the thick crystal's glass.

Prowl gulped, his mouth and throat as dry as the sands in the rock garden. "Is there anything that can be done for it?"

"I am uncertain." Yokotron admitted, carefully brushing away the ore-rich dirt surrounding the base of the crystal until the spiraled base came into view. Its roots were were like the long part of a screw with the pointy end cut off. He turned to Prowl. "You will have to study much to discover if there is a way to bring it back to full health."

"Me?" Prowl's optics widened, a still lightly bloody digit pressing into his chassis. "I can't grow it, you've seen my try. I'd just kill it more than it already is."

"Look." Yokotron pointed deeply at the hidden roots of the mineral plant. "The top is already poisoned by the sun, but the roots are just as strong as ever. I'm certain you can find a way to heal it. Just as I cared for your hand, you must care for the damage you caused."

Prowl's helm lowered. "I suppose it's only fair... You just have to promise not to yell if I make it worse than it really is." Prowl huffed at himself. "I'll probably manage to give it some kind of mutated plant disease that'll-"

"Maybe," Yokotron cut him off before the highly creative, and very dark, imagination of this particular youngling could take over and create a story that would most definitely never happen, "maybe we should begin by getting it out of the sun and into the house."

Prowl quickly nodded in agreement, darting off to a tool shed for a transplant pot and a spade to fill it with ground ore. As Prowl darted into the shed, Yokotron couldn't help but breathe a vent of relief. Prowl was fine, and even better, he now had a long and difficult task ahead of him to keep him busy with. If done right, Yokotron knew the crystal would be back in full bloom soon enough.

Knowing Prowl, he'd probably do it in two quartexes.

The aged master quickly shook away the thoughts, smiling softly as Prowl returned with the needed tools. He showed him the proper ways to use them, and left him to figure out the rest on his own.

* * *

Yokotron smiled softly to himself, peeping through the slat that had remained open in Prowl's room. The youngling was kneeling on his pedes, body in the sunlight and so black he was highlighted shades of green and purple, shimmering around his edges. His digits carefully prodded the metallic soil the poorly crystal resided in.

Its colors were no better than they had been after leaking out much of its fluid after Prowl's mishap with the shruiken. But, being almost two quartexes after the incident, it hadn't lost any either.

Prowl was entirely alone on this project of his, Yokotron reading more than sedation in his movements as finally a task pacified him for longer than five breems. His street-quick movements bordering on spazzy had slowed down, only the gentlest touches for the crystal he was trying to nurse back to health. That gentility had stretched out into Prowl's normal time, his neat penmanship in (re)translating pads taking on a more graceful flow instead of the neat yet spiky glyphs he had used to write in. Less accidents were made in performing katas, and Prowl had been able to sit through an entire meditation segment without flinching or wriggling.

Not even once, and for a mechling with so much potential energy he practically buzzed with it, that was a very good thing.

The tan-tipped, black palmed hand carefully dabbed a cleaning rag on the watery, milky crystal, wiping away the resin and sap it still slowly oozed out. A plaster Yokotron had only given him the recipe for was carefully smeared over the gash, to be reapplied later on when it was absorbed into the plant's shell to enhance thickening.

Yokotron had not given Prowl any help, other than pointing him in the right direction with a quiet suggestion the old Prowl would have brushed aside with a guffaw and ran in the opposite direction in spite. This was Prowl's penance and situation to fix, Yokotron would only supply the information Prowl was lacking in. And, in turn, Prowl accepted his mistake and didn't ask for any help. He studied on his own, viewing pads and going to the geo-botanists Yokotron referenced to from time to time when in search of a new mineral.

The small figure moved, wiping his hands clean of the cloth and resting back on his pedes. As if gaining a sixth sense, Prowl turned towards the door, meeting optics with his Sensei. Yokotron smiled quietly, spark yearning for it to be returned. It wasn't; it never had. But, it wasn't met with a cold, calculating glare, only a calm, calculating one. Prowl would smile back one orn, Yokotron was certain of it.

Seeing as his position was compromised already, Sensei Yokotron pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped into the small, peaceful room. "Am I interrupting?" he asked softly.

Prowl, glancing back towards the crystal, shook his helm. "No, Sensei. I was merely tending the crystal before evening meditation."

Sensei gave a half-nod, looking over the large potted prism with a skillful optic. "You are doing quite well so far. Your patience is paying off."

"How can you tell?" Prowl asked dejectedly, shoulders slumping as he reached for a octigonal cut side before letting his hand simply fall way. "It doesn't look any better."

"It had quite a serious shock, your star had stabbed it quite deep." Yokotron carefully reminded him. "It will be very long before its colors return and it can be planted back outside."

"How long?" Prowl asked warily.

"Vorns, most likely." Yokotron replied. "It took centuries for it to grow this large, and it will perhaps take decades for it to return to full health. But," Yokotron added, "it should begin regaining color within the vorn, and then you will not have to tend to it so carefully."

Prowl vented a sigh of relief. Here he had thought he was going have to keep up his strict schedule, even waking himself up at night, to administer the salve to the wounded crystal for _millenia_. To most, it was simply an inanimate mineral. A bit of glass that grew up from the ground and was pretty to look at. To Prowl, it was his own way of asking for forgiveness and making up for his wrong doings without ever saying the words.

Yokotron knew, and knew well enough it wouldn't do to force an apology or make the youngling ask for forgiveness. His babbling 'sorry's a few quartexes ago when the trespass had been committed were heated, spur of the moment 'Please don't hurt me, I didn't mean it' pleads of a still scared spark crying out. This, the crystal, was the real apology. Prowl's countless joors, endless caring of it was the real _mea culpa_.

And Yokotron was more than happy to accept it, the little ways Prowl expressed himself. Even three vorns since that scrawny (and still skinny) youngling had been taken in, he acted as much an outcast as orn one.

"Come," Yokotron spoke, outstretching a servo for the youngling to rise and follow, "you will help me prepare the evening meal, and then you may entertain yourself until bedtime."

Prowl quickly got to his pedes, clumsily bowing at the waist. "Thank you, Sensei." The promise of free-time was a rare thing to a busy Cyber-ninja-in-training. He had a data-pad smuggled in his subspace that was just begging to be read. He followed the bot of white and gold from the humble berthroom, sliding the door behind.

* * *

Jazz looked up from his pad, glancing towards the large sun burning steadily overhelm. They had been reading for a few joors now and the heat had yet to lessen. In fact, if Jazz checked his internal chronometer and exaggerated a little, he could say it had gotten even hotter.

"Whew." Jazz vented, gaining the other seated mech's attention. "I don't know about you, but I'm melting over here."

Prowl blinked once, the optic band darkening quickly before brightening back up. "If you'd rather head back indoors, I'm sure we could-"

"Nah." Jazz waved him off with a graceful sweep of the hand. "Why don't we just go grab something cool to drink real quick before continuing?"

Prowl helm tilted to the side, optics sliding from the mech of white and blue and red for a neutral spot on the screen supports. His face drew in as his mind whirled, that once brilliant and rapid-fire mind so painfully slow it hurt Jazz every klik he watched Prowl think over something. It didn't matter what, he could have simply asked Prowl if he were hungry and it would have taken a full five breems to receive an answer. An one-hundred percent truthful answer, but one that took so long to think of that Prowl normally forgot what he was supposed to be answering by the time he spoke again.

"That sounds agreeable." Prowl replied after a breem or two, nodding a few times. "If you'd like, I can go in and get something for us while you wait here."

But Jazz was already out of his seat, offering Prowl a hand to help him up before neatly setting aside his pad besides the potted plant. "It'll go quicker if we both do it."

Another nod, much easier than trying to speak, and Prowl followed Jazz into the kitchen for some cool energon to beat the heat before returning to the much anticipated story.

* * *

Author's Note - I should apologize for how short this is. (16 1/2 - 17 according to my WordPad and excluding the A/N.) The others were between 20 and 22, but I just couldn't reach that without combining what I wanted to be in the next chapter and ruining the effects of this one.

Next time the time jump will not be so drastic. I apologize if the large time-skip confused anyone. The first backstory when Prowl was first taken in he was about 12-13. Here he's about 15/16. (But, due to Cybertronians having such a long lifespan he's looked upon the way we might and 7/8 year old and a 10/11 year old. Just in age, though. Not in mentality.) Next chapter the timeskip will only be a few months (groons) and should help move along this plot quite nicely.

BIG THANK YOU TO ALL PREVIOUS REVIEWRS! (Due to a serious lack of time and internet access, I regret to inform you I cannot put all your names up here... so, instead-) I would like to thank {insert your name/username here} for all your reviews!

Thank you for reading, please review. Self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

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**Warnings: Cybertronian Swearing**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Transformers, a list of what I would do: Prowl in TFA and G1 would still be alive, Jazz would be alive in Bay-verse, Prowl would have been added in Bay-Verse, Prowl and Jazz would have both been added to Transformers Prime, MudFlap and Skidz would have never existed, Jazz would have been in Robots in Disguise, Robots in Disgise wouldn't have a very sucky Optimus Prime speech and 'fighting lines' that sucked really sucky in EVERY episode, and I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.**

**All in all- me no ownie; the fandom owns me. **

**Chapter Rating: T. As in the begining of an English afternoon, the start of train, the end of hot, and T and crumpets.**

**Characters: Prowl (duh), Yokotron, implied Jazz(?), Jazz at the end.**

**Chapter Summary: Yokotron cares for Prowl. Prowl needs help. Prowl hates help. Prowl hates being weak. Sensei just don't give a damn. Prowl realizes what a basket of new-born kittens must feel like. (Not in adorableness, as in strength. Why do you think he's got that stupid 'HANG IN THERE' poster in his bedroom on earth? It had to be for some kind of sentimental reason- I absolutely refuse to think that he just liked that idiotic thing.)**

* * *

"Again."

Prowl groaned, optics band doing little to shield the sun from his optics as he lay prostrate on his back. He vented, brushing himself off from the pedes up as sand and dust were shaken from his body. "Sensei, we've been at this for joors, now."

"And we will continue for joors more." Yokotron cut him off. "Until you reach the final pedestal."

Prowl had gotten better at the skipping high in the air from metal log to metal log. That was, until he got to the hardest 'level' and realized the tops were both curved and nearly smaller that his index digit. Okay, maybe he exaggerated a little, but when you fell nonstop for the past six joors and were no closer to the end than you were three vorns ago, tempers and nerves started to fray.

Prowl growled to himself as he shimmeyed up the first pole, his servos and pedes wrapped tightly around it as he scootched up. He reached the top, placing a firm pede on the flattened top and crouched until his equilibrium return. The moment he had properly shifted his center of gravity, he was off. Servos to the sides and back as he leaned forward, keeping himself steady as he rapidly leapt from stump to stump, higher and higher like steps he had to jump to. It soon became too high to simply step to, the sinewy joints and absorbers in his pedes kicking in and letting him spring up. This was only the medium level, level 2. Level 3 was next, then the elusive level 4, leading to the final pole.

He hopped onto the first pole of the third level, keeping his balance and leaping towards the second and the third. The fourth and fifth were becoming narrower, but number six decided it simply did not want Prowl's condensation slick pede to rest upon its head. And, down Prowl went like a load of bricks and rocks and spilled marbles.

He tried to twist the way Yokotron had showed him, like a cyber-cat trying to get to his pedes. He was agile, he was quick... he was going to land on his head.

He hit the ground with a resounding thud, optic band offlining as the back of his helm hit solid ground. He felt the wind rush from his ventilation shafts like a backwards breath, the air sucking itself from him and withholding as he gasped and his vision blackened.

He didn't know how long he was out, it couldn't have been more than a few kliks or a breem at the very most, but he turned his helm to see Yokotron standing a few astro-yards away, eyeing him curiously. As he was finally able to intake, he vented. "Again?"

A single nod. Prowl got to his pedes, not even bothering this time to brush himself off, and started. And fell once again, this time managing to land on his pedes, mainly. He didn't even glance towards his Sensei as he slowly meandered back to the starting point, shimmying up the pole and hopping from stilt to stilt until he lost his balance - three poles away from the final level.

He trudgingly dragged himself back to Point A, servos and pedes wrapped around the metallic pole, and he began to climb up. His sore, tired limbs, however, had other ideas as they all but gave out. He slid down, not even trying to stop himself, until his aft hit the ground with a quiet _thunk_.

He vented quietly to himself, straining his frame to rise and start again. A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned his helm to look into the kind, smiling eyes of his Sensei. "I belive that is quite enough for one orn." Yokotron said, motioning away from the rising poles.

"But I thought the goal was in reaching the end." Prowl objected, eyeing the phantom pole with a mixture one-half longing and one-half distaste. "I still haven't completed the course."

"But you've learned the lesson." Yokotron stated, as vaguely as needed for Prowl to cock his helm.

"What lesson?" he nearly snorted. "How to properly fall?"

Yokotron paused only a moment, letting Prowl's optics search him for some outward clue, as if the youngling was trying to read the answer on his frame. "On the contrary, how to get up again. Evening meal will be set in a half-joor." he quickly turned the subject. "You may use the time as you please, but wash up before coming in."

He turned, heading inside to warm the evening meal and leaving Prowl behind. A quiet murmur of "Yes, Sensei" was barely audible, the inward musings of the youngling too deep and profound and loud within the too-big processor to allow proper speaking. Prowl stood, helm lowered in thought as he tried to piece together what Yokotron had meant.

Prowl had fallen many times, not just today but for the past vorns as he tried the course again and the again. The first few times he had fallen, the first few orns he had been here at the dojo, he had cursed as he stood up and shook himself of, refusing to get back on the agility course. Groons later, he had continued to curse but would get back on most every time he was told until he became too tired or his servos and pedes gave out. Vorns after that, the curses had been smoothed out by mutters and grumbles.

It suddenly dawned on Prowl what his Sensei had meant. Prowl had gotten up each time he had fallen, obviously as he would still be laying on the ground if he hadn't. But, this time, when he had fallen, he hadn't grumbled or complained. He had subconsciously figured out, after three vorns, that the fastest way to get closer to the end was to just get back on and try again.

Ten breems later, when Yokotron peeped out into the training yard, Prowl was high above in the air hopping from pole to pole and falling just before the end. He would walk right back to the beginning, and try again.

* * *

Yokotron nearly smirked as Prowl forced himself to keep his optics open at the dinner table. The optic band shielding his optics kept fading, the youngling nearly drifting off time and time again. Finally, as Prowl's helm snapped up for the tenth time, Yokotron shook his helm, hiding his smile.

"We will forgo evening meditations tonight." he spoke, nearly startling the tired youngling.

"But, Sensei-"

Yokotron's sharp optics cut Prowl off before he could even begin to formulate a proper argument. "You can barely stay awake long enough to finish your meal let alone sit still for any amount of time with your optics shut without falling into recharge." His voice softened as Prowl hung his helm. "You will turn in for the night, and I will light an extra measure of incense for you tonight."

Prowl nearly blew a breath of relief, but found it a waste of energy. His hidden optics met his Sensei's, no smile but grateful nonetheless. "Thank you, Sensei."

"Now," Yokotron said with a single nod of the helm, "finish your energon before going to your berthroom."

Prowl obeyed, nearly. There was some liquid still swirling about the base of his cube before it was pried from his heavy digits and he was pointed in the right direction. The rest was a blur as he curled up on his mat, optic band offlined before his helm even hit the floor.

* * *

He rubbed the warm, metallic rod between his hands, sweetly scented wisps of smoke curling up as he slowly performed a series of three bows before the firepot. The stick, lightly glowing from the heat accumulated from the brisk rubbing in his warped yet strong hands, was placed beside the colder one gently warming in the firepot itself. The incense would be left to burn, more added in the morning when more meditation was needed and another sprinkling of incense to keep the firepot ever burning. With luck, the firepot would continue to heat meditation rods and waft sweet incense for millenia to come. This very pot hid been burning sense Yokotron's own sensei and many before him.

He inhaled deeply as he bent at the waist in final reverence before taking his leave, his skilled pedes making no more sound that a glitch-mouse's as it scurried across an alley. He quietly walked, the gait near creeping, towards a berthroom door's as he poked a helm in.

Prowl was on the floor, laying on his side in a tight ball in heavy recharge. It was rare Prowl was ever seen sleeping the way a proper Cyber-ninja should, preferring the rafters still to any berth or mat or pillow. It would most likely be a quirk of this mech's until his offlining orn.

He stepped forward quietly, optics sweeping over the simple room. The storage chiffarobe, holding only Yokotron's own scrolls and a pad or two Prowl had accumulated over the years. Prowl liked better to store away anything he had up in the rafters with him, Sensei had found a few pads hanging over the edge of the beams or a shruiken slid into a crack.

He next checked the crystal, kneeling next to it and taking in its slightly better color and firmly sealed wound. No longer did Prowl have to wake and apply the sealing agent, only now having to turn the soil ore and add a few minerals to the liquid he gave it periodically. The crystal would continue to grow strongly, and Yokotron was almost loathe to think Prowl had once again outdone himself as the crystal would fully heal long before its time.

A soft, whimpering moan caught his audio, forcing him to turn towards the mumbling figure rolling onto his side, shivering lightly in the draft the door had caused. Yokotron straightened, alerted as it was quite a warm night and the air in the hall was almost stagnant. He would not wake the youngling, still muttering unintelligibly to himself in recharge in spurts before falling silent again, Prowl needed his rest.

Yokotron knelt next to the still frame, laying a hand on the thin wrist. It was cold, feezing and trembling lightly in his airy grasp. He reached up for a dark, chevroned helm. Despite the frame, shaky and cold, it was burning fit to melt plutonium.

"Prowl." Yokotron took a thin servo and shook it lightly, the frown evident in his voice. "Prowl, you must wake up."

The youngling muttered sleepily, annoyed as he tried to bat away the hand gently shaking him awake. A blue band highlighted slightly as hidden optics cracked opened, mouth thinning into a single line to hold back a moan.

"Are you fully awake?" Yokotron asked after letting the youngling roll onto his back on his own, a mixture of surprise and concern crossing the youngling's face as he looked up into his sensei's optics.

Prowl nodded. "Yes... is something wrong?"

"I wish to take your temperature." Yokotron replied softly. "But you must keep awake a few moments." Already the youngling's optics were drooping, optic band near offlined as he numbly nodded in agreement.

Yokotron rose quietly, quickly leaving and returning a moment later with a magnetic thermometer in hand. It was carefully stuck to Prowl's forehelm, clammy from the obvious fever he ran that contrasted with the air about, and left there for a klik or two. As it beeped, a series of five pips, it was disengaged and read.

Even in the dim light of the waning, crescent moon and the new moon or both Cybertronian's twin satellites, Prowl could faintly make out a crease in his sensei's forehelm. As if he didn't believe the electronic device in his hand, he pressed the back of his digits to Prowl's cheek as the youngling propped himself up on his elbows.

"You are quite warm." he murmured, setting the device aside. "How do you feel?"

Prowl blinked groggily, his glossa sluggishly gliding over chapped derma plating as he registered Yokotron's words. "Tired." was all he answered, breathy and light. His helm was starting to hurt, and an odd ache was beginning to full his joints if he focused hard enough. But, the fatigue was the greatest.

Yokotron didn't reply, hands reaching to the side without even looking as he fished up the tangled blanket from by Prowl's pedes. "Lie down and go back to sleep." he spoke softly, watching as Prowl didn't argue and cycled off his optics.

Rising and leaving only to return a second time, Yokotron held two thin blankets in his servos as he knelt next to Prowl for another time that night. He tugged a second one over the small, thin frame and set aside the third, just in case. He humored the thought of heading towards the kitchen for a cube of energon to set beside the youngling, but if he had what he thought Prowl had, intaking anything but air would be the last thing on Prowl's mind.

Yokotron left once more, returning for a final time with a long, floppy tube hanging from under his servo. He knelt, rolling the mat out and smoothing it flat. He lay down, and was soon lightly recharging, processor on high-alert.

* * *

The first time Prowl awoke, Yokotron was pulled from recharge as well. Being very aged and wise, many vorns behind him and more experience than most, Yokotron had learned quite a few things. One of those things consisted of this: not many things needed you to start from bed right away. There was no need to jump up half the time, and he was aware of the problem even before he had told himself to rise.

Prowl, on the other hand, had launched up faster than a rocket to Moonbase 2. His chassis panted and heaved, wheezing as his shafts tried to cool his overheated systems, and his optics band was feverishly bright.

"Sensei!" It wasn't a call, it was a cry. A desperate cry from one who feared it would go unheard, yet tried anyways as there was nothing left to try.

He rose a little swifter, taking the two steps before sinking to his knee caps besides the shaky youngling. "I am here, Prowl."

Prowl started, jerking sharply as his helm whirled around. His optic band wide and chassis heaving slowly with each vent, rasped, "What-wha-"

"It was only a dream." Yokotron comforted, placing a firm hand on the youngling's shoulder.

Prowl frantically shook his helm. "No." he murmured, optic band anywhere but Yokotron's face, scanning the room for the unknown. "It-You were..." Prowl intook. "You told me a secret, I had to protect it. I-I failed. It...killed yo-"

"It was a dream - a memory flux." Yokotron soothed, guiding the youngling back down. "Cycle down and return to recharge."

"But-but I-"

"Dreamt." Yokotron finished firmly. That, or Prowl was exhausted and simply fell back to sleep mere moments later.

There was no second time Prowl woke up, not until late morning. By then, Yokotron had already risen and rolled up his mat, sat through morning meditations, fueled himself, cleaned up some, and settled down to go over some old scrolls. One was never too old to learn something new.

Unlike many of his peers, if millenia upon millenia, aeons upon aeons of vorns old bots could have peers, his audios were both just fine and fine tuned. While others leaned forward in the rocking chairs, dialing up the volume and croaking "Speak up, sonny!" he was practicing katas and listening to glitch mice ten rooms away.

So, when the thin door to Prowl's room was quietly thumped to the side and rapid pedesteps silently pattering up the hall and stopping, he waited for them to return. It was fifteen breems before any kind of noise was heard in the halls again, and he rose to his pedes to meet them halfway.

Prowl was shakily wiping off his mouth, slowly returning to his room after purging most everything in his tank. Yokotron noticed but said nothing.

"Good Morning." he greeted as cheerfully as he normally did.

Prowl stopped, leaden pedes stymied, and he covertly put a hand to the wall for support. Not so covertly that it went unseen by the trained eyes of the Circuit-Cu master, but he again did not comment. He grunted some kind of return, not really words or anything more than a hoarse, raw noise from his throat. "'Mornin'..."

"I trust you rested well?" Yokotron asked, his voice low to keep the pounding in Prowl's helm minimal.

"Wouldn't you know?" Prowl muttered, looking very much that youngling he had pulled in off of the streets. Young a naïve, spunky and rebellious (and sarcastic), and very much needing the gentle guidance and help of a hand to take care of him.

Yokotron's derma plating twitched at the edges, but not a strut in his body betrayed him. "Go return to you room and rest, and, if your tank has settled, I will bring you something to fuel with."

Prowl made a face, wrinkling his olfactory, but was too tired to argue. He only gave a single nod, slowly taking his hand from the wall. The Cyber-ninja watched carefully, but any intervention on his half was never needed. Prowl slid into his berthroom a moment later, and lay down on his mat and shuttered his optics.

It was one of those illnesses when you were achy, not in pain, but never comfortable. Laying on your side only ached the struts and rods in his back, and laying on his back made the rest of him hurt. Turning too quickly made the nausea in his tank increase, and keeping his optic band online made his helmache worse. Sleep evaded him just as much as comfort, and the old clock down the hall somewhere dragged its hands across its face as slow as it possibly could.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

He could just make out the blurry silhouette of his Sensei on the other side of the paper door. He didn't answer, not having to as it slid aside with one gentle motion.

"You are awake." Yokotron stated, bearing a single cube of an off shade of energon in his hands. "Good." He knelt next to the youngling, Prowl propping himself up on his elbow joints as a warped, strong hand gently caressed his forehelm. "You are still very warm."

"It's just a virus." Prowl returned, voice no better then that morning. He cleared it, flinching at the grating traveling up and down his throat tube.

Yokotron's own observation seemed to line up with Prowl's hypothesis, and he reached his long, white digits for the cube. "Take a few small sips from this, it'll help with your fever and soothe your throat."

The cube was an unnatural blue. Normal, plain energon was an electric azure. And, while Prowl was used to the varying fuzzy shades of neon blue, changed because of the crystals Yokotron frequently added to cubes, this one was almost teal with additives. But... if it would help his throat...

Prowl reached for it, hands shaking lightly, and took a hesitant sip. Most natural additives and crystals were bitter and harsh to the untrained glossa receptors, Prowl himself had basically spit out his first sip the first night he had been taken into the dojo. This, though, gave a whole new meaning to the words _bitter_ and _tart_.

He managed only to make a face, grimacing as he forced down the single sip. Instant relief cooled his throat tube, but his tank grinded in protest and his mouth was very unhappy.

"Ugh." Prowl moaned, setting aside the barely tasted drink with a quiet tink of glass against the floor. "If it's supposed to be good for me, why does it have to taste so vile?" he mumbled, laying back. He started back up as a familiar look crossed over his Sensei's face. "Please, don't answer that."

A soft smile played with Yokotron's face. "Whatever gave you the idea I was?"

"You-you get this... look." Prowl motioned around his face, gesturing widely. Yokotron would have thought him delirious were he not speaking lucidly. "Then you'd tell me that all good things must be come by some trail or some slag like that."

Yokotron raised an optic ridge at the language, but said nothing else.

"And, normally, I wouldn't care." Prowl continued on, oblivious to his Sensei's amused optics or the optic ridge. "When you talk like that, it makes me think. Like the poles and the grumbling." he added. "But my helm hurts and I don't want to think right now."

That earned an actual laugh from the older bot, a small chuckle, but a laugh nevertheless. "I see. Very well, I shall try my hardest to refrain from making you think while you are ill."

Prowl's face puckered a second time. "You're teasing me."

The aged master gave a single nod of his helm. "Yes." He chuckled a second time, one laugh rare and two almost unheard of, he gave Prowl's servo a light squeeze. "Try and get some rest, I will leave the cube here if you need it again."

"Yes, Sensei." Prowl returned tiredly, watching the graceful strides of his guardian leave the room and slowly close the paper-thin door. Whatever bitter sludge that had been in the energon must have also been a sedative, the small sip Prowl stomached sending him to recharge faster then any medical drug known to botkind.

* * *

Night seemed to never come, always joors or breems away. Prowl was tired, unable to sleep because of the bright sun filtering through the window shade and the thin walls, becoming impossibly bright just before setting. The Twin Moons of Cybertron seemed to take their own time in pushing their large sister out of the sky.

But, all good things must come to an end. (What that had to do in Prowl's case, he had no idea.) He only knew that, one moment it was so bright his processor was trying to hide behind his optics, and the next everything was submerged in darkness. A soft scuffling sounded besides him, and he slowly turned his head. There was no curiosity in the movement, only reflex.

Yokotron's kind eyes were the last things he saw before drifting into recharge, submitting to his frame's needs.

It was some time later he shivered, optics cracking open as something blessedly, hideously cold touched him. He wanted to gone; he wanted it closer. Somewhere, in his semi-conscious state, he knew he was partially uncovered. He wanted the blankets back; he wanted the blankets gone.

"Shh." Yokotron's voice was monotonous, well-meaning but bland. The room smelled thickly of incense, so sickly sweet his mouth watered and his tank churned. Perhaps Sensei was trying to bless him, letting the firepot release the incence somewhere in the room... he couldn't tell, the room too blurry. He was too tired to act on nausea, and he shivered again as that cold, and now he realized, wet thing touched him.

A cold cloth was moving over his face, wiping the condensation from his helm and cheek plates. It swiped at his servos from time to time, and he both relished and rebuked the chilling, soothing, hypothermia it brought.

He wanted to speak, to ask why his Sensei looked at him with those kind, soft, blue eyes filled with worry. His mouth tried to speak, a half-sparked attempt as not even a breathy sound left his sore throat. His body ached, he was nauseous, he was cold and hot all at once, his processor really was trying to escape his helm, and he just felt so sick...

The rag was dropped to the side, warm digits replacing them. There was some new sound in the room, like the sound of a little child before they burst into quiet tears. A whimpering noise he realized too late that had come from him.

His optics rolled up, hidden out of sight, at how soft those hands were beneath the seasoned metal. The warps and divots in the digits and palms only added to the story read from them. They stroked his cheek, again and again, going only one way. Up, towards his optic, stop at the base of his visor, lift, return to cheek at mouth level, repeat in the softest way possible.

Looking down at his young, and ill, student, Yokotron couldn't help the bit of worry that creeped into his spark. He knew this was merely the body's way of dealing with foreign invaders, and Prowl's temperature really wasn't all that high, but to see the strong, spunky youngling reduced to this trembling, softly crying heap... It was enough to tug on the sparkstrings of even the sternest carrier.

It was only when he pet the young one's face did he finally settle, joors of tending and warming and cooling doing little to comfort Prowl. Prowl's lip trembled a funny way, and it took a whole five breems for Yokotron to realize he was smiling. Barely, but there was a distinct curvature of the mouth that could be categorized in the very miniscule of smiles.

But, it was not a true smile. It mimicked a newborn's smile, the twitching of little lips that didn't understand the meanings of happy or sad, of smile or frown. They only knew warmth and compassion, and cold and hunger. And, only vaguely at that. Which was why sparklings cried, instinctually longing for the positive over the negative.

Tears were natural, smiles were something more.

He stroked the hot cheek until the fever-bright optic band slowly whirred off, and continued his ministrations long into the night.

* * *

The first thing he noticed when he opened his optics, he could actually open his optics. His helm didn't hurt, the achiness had lessened drastically, his tank felt more settled, and the overall feeling of malaise seemed to have finally passed over. It felt like the sunshine after a hard, acid storm.

He shuttered slowly, taking a deep vent before slowly sitting up. The first thing he saw was his Sensei, awake and greeting him with a warm smile. He was kneeling next to Prowl's mat, hands on his knees in resting position, and a tired draw to his face.

Prowl noticed the tiredness long before he ever realized he had missed the smile. His face fell. "Was I much trouble?"

It was the third time in two days Prowl had heard his Sensei laugh, a breathy chuckle. "No, not at all." he promised. He was close enough to simply reach forwards and clasp the forehelm. "Your fever has broken."

Unsure what to say, Prowl just nodded in agreement.

"Do you belive yourself well enough to fuel?" Yokotron asked carefully.

It took a moment, Prowl slowly thinking his way through the question. Finally, he nodded. "I think so."

Yokotron rose, with that grace Prowl always felt a pang of jealousy for. "I will return-"

"I can come." Prowl quickly objected, flinching as he realized he had cut off his Sensei. He lowered his helm, speaking slower and softer. "I mean, you don't need to bring it here. I can help."

"Perhaps," Yokotron agreed with a single nod, "and, if you are feeling better, you may join me in evening meditations and meal. But, for now," his voice took on that warning tone Prowl seldom heard now, " you will rest."

It was not a suggestion, by any means. "Yes, Sensei."

As Yokotron left the room, Prowl silently resolved in his helm to be extra helpful and obedient when he was strong enough.

* * *

He vent, pedes stilling. The pleasant _creak, creak, creak_ of the curved rocking chair legs against the floorboards stopped.

Prowl, too, stopped his own rocking. The two cubes of energon were long gone, nothing but droplets and sticky residue solidifying in the final rays of the sun. His optic band flicked over Jazz's stilled frame, the white helm turned towards the magnificent pink and purple sunset, the longing hidden beneath that visor colored just like his.

"Is there something wrong?" Prowl asked, cocking his helm. "Is that all there is to the story?"

Jazz started, helm darting over to Prowl before a smile was plastered over his lips. "No, no. Nothing's wrong. Just... it's getting rather late."

Prowl turned his helm in the direction Jazz's previously was. "Oh." he murmured at the final colors of blue and green. "I hadn't even noticed."

"That's all right." Jazz still smiled, rising from his chair and holding a hand out to Prowl. Prowl accepted the help, and was soon on his own pedes. "You know... there is still quite a bit of my story left. How about I come down tomorrow and read you some more of it?"

Prowl nodded eagerly, like a sparkling begging for another bedtime story. "That sounds fine."

Jazz's grin spread, the smile actually reaching his optics this time. "Good. I'll be down the same time I was today, that okay?"

The black and tan mech nodded again. "Yes."

Jazz let himself be led to the front door, giving the offered hand a firm shake. He let his digits intertwine with the mech's a moment, lingering as long as he could without looking like anything he wasn't trying to be - just a friend and storyteller. If Prowl had noticed the lengthy hand hold, he showed no signs, only shutting the door behind Jazz once the mech had stepped away.

* * *

Author's Notes- Along with the warnings and summary at the beginning of these chapters, I'm beginning to think of putting a moral. This ones would have been 'If at first you don't succeed...'(maybe), the last would have been something like 'Learn from your mistakes' or 'Make up for your errors', and the one before 'Respect your elders'. I really didn't intend to have a moralistic theme per chapter, but it seems like that's gonna keep happening. If it does, a Moral will be added to the Summary above. :P

Also, shout-out to **Neon (Guest)** for reminding me that the martial arts form is, in fact, Circuit-Cu and not Cyber-Zu. I beg forgiveness from all my readers for my slip up. I haven't seen the TF: Animated shows in years, and I refuse to rewatch them as I hate the fact they killed off Prowl and left SO MANY DAMN PLOT HOLES! Anywho *heh, heh* the main martial arts forms in here will be Metallico, Circuit-Cu, and Cyber-Zu just to keep this story canon and fannon and it doesn't make me look like a complete idiot... Oh, wait... I write fanfiction, I can't get anymore idiotic then that. :P

And, on a final note, Prowl really was just sick. Just a virus. I know, with his falling down and everything, it seemed like maybe a concussion or internal injury, but it was just a bug. Tryin' ta show a bit o' Prowl and Yokotron relationship 'ere. (Not romance, jus' fatherly/sonly. This is a PxJ shippin'.) You can also tell from this chapter that I really hate it when one of the characters is sick and the other one sits by their bed like some kind of crazy stalker. ('Dude, I'm puking up my guts into a frickin' bucket because I'm too sick to get to the bathroom. Do you have to sit there and watch?' 'I'm here to help you' *stares intensify* 'O-oookay then.') Yokotron wasn't like that. He kept his distance until he was really needed.

Self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own. Please review! (As I am very busy right now, ya'll are gettin' this a day early.)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**Warnings - Poor plagiarizing skills... MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH - but if you've seen TFA, you know anyways. **

**Disclaimers - I own nothing, so if I disclaim it, it's not plagiarized. **

**Ratings - K+ (I don't think I've ever done one of them before.)**

**Summary - Prowl delves deeper into his Cyber-ninja-ness. Yokotron trained a jerk - not Prowl, a different jerk. TIME SKIP - in human times, he went from about... 15/16-ish to 17. Human time. He's looked at younger physically, not mentally. Prowl gets 'a gift'. We finally get to the good parts of this sucky story. Shopping and a hankie warning. TISSUE WARNING. Prowl learns the finer arts of haggling - and reverts to cheating.**

**Characters this chapter - Yokotron, Prowl, a bunch of nobodies that have no soul yet. Jazz at the beginning. Implied Ratchet at the beginning.**

**I REPEAT, TIME SKIP. And, some things will look familiar, but I've skimmed them briefly. I haven't seen the show in almost 4 years or so, so I'm going off of my memory with quotes and all. And, I know the 'quotes' don't match up with the shows, or the scenes, just bare with me, please? **

* * *

Prowl was seated in his chair, the newly introduced stranger/helper Ratchet had invited that orn making sure he was comfortable. As if pulling it from mid-air, the white visored mech bearing the stripes of an Elite Guardsmech came towards him with a light, blue blanket.

"A bit nippy today." Jazz smiled softly, placing the soft blanket over Prowl's lap and tucking the corners tight. "I wouldn't want you catching cold."

"It's not too chilly." Prowl argued lightly, his keen, hidden optics tracking the white mech as he claimed his own rocking chair on the enclosed porch. His hidden eyes flicked towards the screening. "It appears we might be in for an acid storm later on."

"Smells like rain?" Jazz grinned, withdrawing his Data-Pad. His smile nearly faltered, the laughter leaving his optics as the upturn of his derma remained. Prowl hadn't remember him again, not that he expected him to. But, Prowl's ignorance meant that he also forgot what he had read the orn before. No matter, he'd dealt with this exact situation time and time again. "You wouldn't mind if I started at a random part, would you?"

Prowl helm tilted the the side, processor slowly catching up with the question. "No..." he hesitantly replied. "Is there a reason why?"

Jazz quickly shrugged. "No, not really. I've just been patching up a line here and there and wanted to try out the new bits on audios other than mine." It hurt how easy it was to lie.

Prowl hummed. "I suppose that wouldn't be a problem." he stated.

Onlineing the Data-Pad to the last page read, Jazz began.

* * *

Withdrawing from meditation was no longer a saving grace. Sitting there, with his eyes closed, sometimes humming, sometimes not, was no longer a chore. He looked forward to morning and evening meditations the same way he had once looked forward to morning and evening meal. (He still looked forward to those, too, though.) It was a time to turn away from the world, sort through his thoughts and tangled emotions, and smooth them straight.

He could have sworn that, just yesterorn, he had dreaded coming for meditation. The rituals and motions, the time sitting still; couldn't he just light a candle and take a nap? He'd accomplish the same amount of things, which was nothing. Now, though, he found a way to soothe his whirling processor, the rampaging beast that ruled his life.

He vented deeply, pulling the last tendrils of himself from his mind and letting the incense pull him back to reality. He vented out, onling his visor. Sensei Yokotron was still in meditation himself, and rather deeply at that. From the looks of it, he would be at it for quite awhile longer.

While Prowl had discovered a newfound love in meditation, he had never exactly grown out of his impatience of waiting. Waiting, as in sitting still in one position without moving until his Sensei withdrew from meditation himself. It took every scrap of will-power in him to not tap his digits against his kneecaps or to twiddle those same digits against one another as he waited. He did, however, give into the temptation of keeping his visor band online instead of shutting it back down.

His hidden optics swept over the still, straight frame of his Teacher. Crested heavily with his Samurai-like armor, Yokotron was the personification of Peace. Optics shuttered, that is. There was always something hidden deep within those deep orbs, millenia of trials and triumphs and secrets untold. Sitting close to Sensei like this, still and quiet and thoughtful, it reminded Prowl of just how young and nieve he was.

His lifespan was nothing compared to that of his Teacher's. Aeons of unspoken history compared to a few decades of vorns? Not even a full score to mark off of his life. It didn't make Prowl's history any less important, it only showed he had much to learn.

Prowl started lightly, face heating up as he watched the soft smile flit across his Sensei's face, those blue orbs peering right back. "I...I did not mean to stare."

His Sensei seldom laughed, never grouchy or cross just knowing when was the right time to show humor and when not to. He seemed to deem now one of the times not to, but his optics smiled all the wider. "There is no harm done." he stated, slowly pressing a palm to the floor to push himself up. Just when had the creak entered his knee-caps?

Prowl merely rose, hands never touching the floor. Together, they methodically wrapped up their meditations and added the last bits of hot charcoal to the firepot. Yokotron quietly slid the door shut behind them, doing little to block out the spicy scent.

"Sensei." Prowl spoke. Yokotron turned around, nearly having to look up slightly. Just when had Prowl grown so tall? He was still a sprite compared to some bots, but he was a giant compared to the shrimp he started out as. "Sensei, what shall you have me do today?"

It was a polite statement, and the corners of Yokotron's lips threatened to turn up as he wondered just what Old Prowl would have said. Instead, he hummed in though. Prowl was much too old now to spend joors translating data-scrolls and practicing basic katas, he had all the advanced ones down to a fine art. Perhaps it was time to move on to the next step.

"Come with me, Prowl." Yokotron motioned lightly. "There is something I wish to show you."

* * *

"_I-I'm sorry."_ his chassis had felt so heavy, a light pant on his lips and condensation slick over his frame. _"I can't do it."_

Yokotron had said he did well for his first time, and something odd shadowed the corner of those ancient optics. Had Prowl been an unbiased observer, he would have read the pinch as awe. Being a totally biased youngling constantly bringing himself down, he did not know what to make of it.

"_It is Processor Over Matter."_

The name sounded familiar, something Jazz teased about from time to time. The white mech would put two digits to his temple and hold out a hand, mimicking telekinetic powers. He would only laugh at Prowl's lifted optic ridge when he caught the youngling's optics. At the time, Prowl had thought it a corny joke. Now he learned it was all real.

Of course, nobot could just go about lifting things and carrying them about using only their processor like some kind of demi-god. Processor Over Matter took a great deal of peace, concentration, energy, and focus if his current condition was anything to go off of now. Slumped against the low hanging rafter, limbs ghosting non-existent pain and a proecessor-ache steadily building up behind his visor.

Yokotron had made it look so easy, graceful and fluid in his motions. The door slid open without a hitch, no lock to speak of. But, who needed a visible lock when your mind was the only key needed? When Prowl had tried, his motions had been slow and awkward. He wondered how Yokotron didn't laugh at him as he tried the new trick.

Prowl groaned softly to himself, finding just enough energy to move into his side, hand dangling towards the distant floor. His visor band had long since gone offline, but his mind had yet to still. He was very tired, but couldn't calm his processor enough to achieve sleep.

It took some kind, and he counted up to a trillion and seven, but he finally managed to drift off to sleep.

* * *

He sat crossed-pede on the ground, optics shuttered in his own private meditation. He was outside, inhaling the heat of the day and the tang of germinating crystals. Before him lay his abandoned shruikens, mastered in ability as he tried to master yet another trick.

It was like hitting a brick wall repeatedly and with no way to stop. Again and again he mentally slammed himself against that wall, trying to veer away, to duck under, to jump over, only to slap into it all over again. He could feel the energy channeling through his body, he could find just the place they needed to go, but he had no way to lead the energy to the right points and lift the shruiken off the ground.

Prowl vented, cracking open an optic. _Why isn't this working?_ he grumbled inwardly. Everything else was so easy - lessons and data-pads, scrolls and memorization, basic poses and katas - yet he couldn't master his mind. It was an unruly beast within his head, an uncontrolled monster that needed taming. Yokotron had been out earlier, chuckling softly to himself at Prowl's pinched face and digits so tight they dug into his pedes as he sat in Lotus pose.

"Relax." his Sensei murmured softly. "Do not force it. You are working against your energy; you must learn to work with it."

But how did you work with something you did not understand? It was a crazy combination: Prowl and his mental energy. It was as odd a combo as Unicron and Primus, good and evil, video games and data-pad, and Prowl and Jazz. Things that could never mix in perfect harmony and never would.

Prowl vented again, reluctantly rising to his pedes. It was getting late and he had chores to do. There were rooms to sweep, times to meditate, and dinner to prepare. He slipped into the house as silently as a footless glitch-mouse and donned a broom. An extremely primitive tool, but Prowl found he liked it after awhile. It was quiet and methodic and it gave him more time to think as his servos moved on their own and his mind ran away with its imagination.

He still couldn't belive his big blunder the other orn, while Yokotron was leading him to the lockless locked door. A whole room filled with Yokotron's past students, even Jazz's face as his optics had swept the corridor. Holographic images in blue hummed steadily, so many unfamiliar faces, and one day Prowl would take his place here. His optics stopped at one a little ways down the line, black and empty.

_"Is...is that place for-" _he had dared himself to ask, insatiable curiosity winning out.

_"A student who brought me great shame."_ Yokotron had cut him off, and immediately Prowl felt his face heat up. As in sensing the youngling's blush, Yokotron had called him away, brushing aside the conversation as if it had never happened.

That room, Prowl swept the floors slowly, was for great students who had served well and done good with their lives. Prowl was not at that point yet, but he felt he would one orn. He did take comfort in the though you didn't have to be offlined to be immortalized in Yokotron's hall - Jazz already in it. He wondered just what it would take to wound such a kind spark as Yokotron's so much he not only removed them from his own personal history, but did all he could to forget him.

That troublesome curiosity sprang up a moment, quickly smothered out by logic. Prowl wanted to please his Teacher and make him proud. Digging up old, painful memories would be a surefire method to getting the boot himself.

He picked up speed, suddenly wishing to be done with the tedious task. He hurried with the sweeping, perhaps missing a few corners of the papery walls before he tucked the broom back into the wall. Just in time too, as a gentle voice called to him.

"Prowl." Yokotron never shouted, but his voice was loud enough to call him halfway across the home. "It is time for meditations, set aside whatever you're doing and come sit."

Prowl bowed deeply at the waist, deciding it better not to tell Sensei he had finished with most of his evening chores. He only followed in traditional movements and scooped the proper measure of incense over the hot, charcoal filled firepot. It wasn't traditional, but he couldn't refrain from shuttering his optics and breathing in the tang. It was so soothing, spicy tendrils that floated through his olfactories and up to his processor, enveloping it in peace and serenity.

Prowl realized for the first time that he was happy here. He had always been welcome, even when he didn't feel it, and now he did. He was wanted and loved and cared for. A slight pulling on his lips started him from his thoughts, and he quickly smoothed his face and set aside the measuring spoon. He turned, hoping Sensei hadn't seen. Thankfully, the elderly mech had not, already seated and optics offline. With barely a noise, Prowl sank down beside him and offlined his visor.

_It was dark, smoke filled his olfactories and stung his hidden optics. The thick stench of burning protoform turned his tank. All around him was burning, flame and smoke. It was contained, it wasn't consuming, but it burned. He hurt and ached, but he was untouched by the inferno surrounding._

_He felt a tug, pulling him to that place Yokotron had showed him just recently. A room filled with the future, to help once the ravaging war had simmered down some more. It was nearly finished now, merely picking off straggling axis powers - the Decepticons near non-existent. Protoforms lined the walls, down to the lowest depths and up as high as Prowl could see. Asleep in pods stuck in the wall like cupboards, the future awaited to wake up._

_No future._

_Death._

_Pain._

_Destruction._

_"Great Shame."_

_There was a frame in the distance, spread prone across the ground and greying._

_He wanted to move but found that the heat had melted him just enough to weld his pedes to the floor. He couldn't move. He couldn't call for helm, smoke thick in his shafts and choking him. It was all his fault, and he had no idea why. He could have done something, but what? He could do something, but how?_

_"Prowl." a voice called._

_He was moving, not on his own, but like a conveyor belt. Slowly, without ceasing._

_"Prowl." it called again, beckoning. The voice was familiar, but too weak to pinpoint exactly._

_"Prowl!"_

He gasped, intakes burning and aching as if they had been stabbed through with a hot poker. Prowl started to slump, processor failing to do anything but send up error messages as everything overheated, supercooled, and crashed at one. He couldn't tell if he was dizzy or not, there was no room to spin around. He couldn't tell if he were unconscious or not, he was blinded. The error messages were filling his vision to maximum capacity, an eerie darkness filling his sight.

Slowly, he managed to take a normal vent. He was not unconscious, only dazed and confused. One by one, the pop-up error messages began to slip away, and he found that he was rather dizzy. Now, instead of black, he only saw white. And shimmering gold.

Prowl glanced up, sheepish and face warming, into a pair of worried, pinched optics watching him curiously. "I-" _Apologize _was on the tip of his glossa. He found himself trembling, his spark palpitating in his chest, and a sheen of condensation making his body slick. "-Sensei?"

The elderly mech remained still as he allowed the younger mech to push himself away at his own speed, barely controlled shakes traveling up and down his frame. His optics looked like crescent moons laid flat, and the blue orbs nearly hidden swept over the black frame. "What did you see, Prowl?"

Hands in his lap, focusing on only his venting, Prowl shook his helm. "I... I don't know. It wasn't a dream."

"No." Yokotron agreed. "It was not." He reached out gently, clasping a thin knee-cap. "What was it you saw?"

Prowl swallowed once, whetting his derma. He shuttered his optics, trying to recall just what it was that had filled his mind just moments ago. It was like trying to recall a dream, a reoccurring nightmare. It left you cold and shaky and sick to your tank, but you could only grasp at bits of it as it once again buried itself in the subconscious.

The youngling opened his optics, weakly shaking his helm. "Just fire. I can't-can't remember anything more. The dojo was on fire."

"An accident?" Yokotron prod gently. Many talented Cyber-ninja came across natural gifts, even Yokotron had unlocked many prophecies or pinned together things others would never think of pairing together. Never, though, had he seen such a vision as this.

Prowl had been as stiff as an iron rod, straight and tense. His intakes hitched when they could, and when they did not they remained stuck. The black digits had twitched on crooked hands, a psychological tick instead of bored fiddling. Only once had he made a sound, a strangled gasp that had brought Yokotron out of his own self-evaluation and calming meditation. Furthermore, Prowl's normally visor had changed to a color the old mech had never seen it go before: a spotless white. As bright and glaring as a newly installed lightbulb.

Mind set, Prowl shook his helm in reply. "No, Sensei. It was not an accident." The youngling lifted his visor band, a normal if not dim blue, to meet his Sensei's. "What was it? A nightmare or a-a hallucination?"

The hand still resting on his pede moved to Prowl's shoulders. "You have been granted a vision, Prowl. A very strong one."

"I-" Prowl paused a moment, taking another vent to collect himself. "I didn't like it very much." he admit.

Yokotron didn't reply, optics furrowed in a moments thought before returning to their normal places on his forehelm. "Finish your meditation, Prowl. It will put your mind at ease."

A sudden emotion swept through his spark like a cold ocean wave. A fear like a little child awaking from a nightmare, comforted, and then told to go back to sleep. Ge back into that realm of darkness, the pit of your subconscious that had made up that terrible dream in the first place.

"What if it happens again?" Prowl's voice was no more than a whisper, the ghost heat of the flames lapping at his pedes and servos. He vented out, chasing it away.

Yokotron extook softly. "If it happens again," he started slowly, "then it was ordained to happen regardless of your meditation or not."

Well, that was a much better answer than the creator to their youngling after a nightmare - 'Just go back to sleep.' However, it wasn't a very comforting thought that it _could_ happen again.

Intaking deeply, Prowl shuttered his optics, and slowly worked is way towards peace. As he sunk deep in mediation, he was oblivious to his Sensei who remained still, optics opened and mind working as hard as it ever had to decipher Prowl's unsettling vision.

* * *

Something was wrong. He just had a feeling, an offset twinge in the center of his tank setting off his sixth sense. Something was off about his Sensei, but what, Prowl did not know.

Instead, he just made extra-sure to be extra-helpful. He swept not only the regular floors, but traveled deep into uncharted closets of scrap an old mech had collected and become connected to sentimentally for vorns. Yokotron was what some would dub a 'clean pack-rat', a bot who controlled the clutter by clearing it from view but not really addressing the problem itself.

Once every dust bunny had been eradicated from every corner of the dojo, Prowl moved onto the countless cupboards and scattered chiffarobes and began to organize every pad he could find. He not only organized them, wiping off the dust and arranging them neatly, he categorized them alphabetically, chronologically, by author, and by period in time. He played with the idea that perhaps he was supposed to be a librarian, perhaps even a keeper at the Hall of Records. He imagined just what he could learn there, all the hidden knowledge within each one of those pads just waiting to be devoured by his starving optics.

He brushed away the idea as soon as he realized how foolish it was. It wasn't his time to leave yet, he still had much to learn before he followed Jazz's path of finding himself. Besides, while spry, Yokotron was most definitely not getting any younger. Just who would help and take care of him when he became too aged and weak to care for himself anymore? It was evidet that he wasn't willing to train any more in the Arts, Prowl had just barely made it as an exception. Jazz should, and would have been the last to train under Sensei Yokotron had Prowl not snitched that night.

The last data-pad slid into place, as shining as if it were fresh off the shelf instead of having been locked away in a closet for hundreds of vorns. What could he do next? Perhaps he could polish some of Yokotron's antique armor, or tidy up the meditation room and refill the incense jars.

So engrossed in his thoughts and eagerness to get to the next task, he nearly ran into a still frame calmly watching him from the doorway. "Sensei!" Prowl nearly exclaimed, pedes stopping so quickly he felt the jolt travel up to his spinal struts. "I didn't see you, I apologize."

Yokotron ignored the transgression, instead focused on the partially open chiffarobe revealing the neat pads. "You have been busy today."

Prowl nodded lightly. "Yes, Sensei, I have."

"What did you do?" Yokotron asked immediately, optics shining as he teased.

"Nothing!" Now Prowl did exclaim, missing the mischief in the old mech's optics. "I haven't done anything wrong, I just-" He stopped, a warped, stiff hand wrapping long digits around his shoulder. He glanced up, catching his Sensei's optics at long last, and ducked.

Yokotron chuckled lightly. "Have you finished your exercises?"

"I did the basic and difficult katas this morning." Prowl answered. "And I will finish the intermediate ones before I go to recharge."

Yokotron returned with a single nod. "And your chores?"

"All finished, but I was planning on tending the gardens and some other tasks still." Prowl stated. He didn't have to tell Yokotron what he was going to do. Surprises were much better, especially if the old mech never noticed. Prowl didn't need recognition, only the knowledge that he had done the right thing.

"Very good." Yokotron praised quietly. The old mech reached into his subspace, digits wrapping about a few small, circular, glowing object. "But, I must ask you to do one more thing."

"Sensei?" Prowl asked as Yokotron took his hand and dropped a small collection of chips into his palm.

"I would like you to go into the city for me, a friend of mine has told me that a merchant is selling a few types of crystals our garden is lacking."

Prowl's spark fluttered lightly, knowing exactly just what type of 'crystals' their overabundant patch didn't have. Yokotron had quite a sweet tooth, perhaps growing weary of the bitter taste in his old age and wishing to indulge himself now as he lived through his later vorns. Not wishing for Prowl to catch him in his slight indulgences, he never kept any around. Instead, Yokotron normally made the trip himself and added a bit of the ground crystal powder into his own cube at mealtimes. And, on even rarer occasions, Prowl was allowed a pinch or small helping, the last being his 'designated sparkday'. (Prowl didn't know it and Yokotron couldn't go on guessing Prowl's age, so a rough estimate was reached and an orn chosen as Prowl's birthday.)

Rubbing the chips with his thumb, Prowl cocked his helm. "It is no inconvenience, Sensei, but you normally go yourself."

The older mech nodded, a sudden fatigue jumping into his bright optics that hadn't been there before. Or maybe Prowl just hadn't noticed it. "Indeed, but I find myself uncharacteristically tired this orn. You know the vendor and what crystals I like, it should prove not to be too difficult a task."

"Of course not." Prowl rolled his hidden optics. A moment later, he had subspace the chips and taken to the streets.

* * *

His subpsace rattled within him, the loose crystals noisily clattering and rolling about inside. His digits smelled of their sweet, flakey shell, and the smell would take forever to wash out of his subspace pocket. Not that he was complaining, it was a very pleasing scent. Almost as sweet as the burning incense.

Speaking of which, Prowl was going to be late for evening meditations if he didn't move faster. The traffic and crowd traveling through the shops and vendors, though, was too thick to safely turn into alt. mode and Prowl was wary of transforming, fearing that he might crush the crystals too soon or bang them about too much. His pedes would have to suffice for now.

Prowl wandered through the wide, cobblestone streets, eyeing the bots on either side of him and studying the merchants calling their goods. Some, like the bot Prowl had just bought from, sold food goods, from tangy rust sticks to oil additives, rust preservatives, energon of all types, grades, and flavors, and dry, crumbly oil cakes. Others sold upgrades and spare parts, and some sleazier stands sold tempting goods that promised mood changers, processor alters, or 'toys' Prowl averted his optics from. One stand, though, caught Prowl's optics more than any other had.

Knowing good and well he didn't have much time to spare, he dodged the crowd until he was right in front of the small kiosk and all it sold. Knives and katanas, darts and ziplines sparkled in the sunlight, but Prowl's optics had settled on a small, black box.

"See something you like?" a pudgy yet well-groomed, well-mannered, and smiling bot asked from his backless stool.

"I'm not sure." Prowl stated, turning the box in his hands. It matched his shade perfectly and was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. A small, glass covered hole was on one end and the rest seemed to merge with whatever part of the frame it was connected to.

The bot, as green as a spring day, leaned over his boxes of goods to peer into Prowl's hand. "Ah, you've found my little projector. A beautiful little device, that."

"Projector..." Prowl hummed quietly to himself. "Holographic technology?"

"The best." the short, round bot stated with all the suave of a skilled salesman. "Been looking for something like that?"

Prowl shook his helm. "Not particularly."

"Well, let me tell you," the green mech prattled on, "there is no way on Cyberton you could go wrong with that little doohicky."

"It seems to be in good condition." Prowl stated softly, turning the box over and scanning it. Not a scratch marred its surface, and even its wires seemed to be in place. Slowly - reluctantly - Prowl replaced the little box.

The merchant's face fell. "Something wrong with it?"

Prowl shook his helm. "Not at all. You were truthful when you said it was the best. I... just don't have the credits for it right now."

He expected the green mech's face to fall further, but instead his smile returned and his optics sparkled. "This _is_ a market, youngling. Trading can be good, if not better, then credits if the deal is right."

Prowl again shook his helm. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to trade either."

"Hmm." the bot hummed quietly to himself. "I see your dilemma, then. I'll tell you what," he started, "I'll try to hold onto this gadget a while. You see, I move on in a quartex or two, depending on how business is going here. I'll keep this projector tucked far back where bots normally don't look, and if you can find something I'm willing to trade it for, it's yours."

"Really?" Prowl's helm started up.

The green mech nodded, smiling all the while. "I'm not pulling it from my shelves, just... burying it some. If somebot digs it out and wants it, I'm selling. But, if I don't-"

The pleasant business mech was given no time to finish, a feminine scream sounded from somewhere in the crowd. Frantic murmurs overlapped, digits pointing towards the air as smoke billowed from some distant point. Large wisps of cloudy black smoke, rising up from-

"No." Prowl vented, optics wide as he ran out into the crowd. He paused, optics staring with the crowd and audios straining until the distinct crackle of flames just reached him. Without wasting another moment, Prowl collapsed into alt. mode, crystals be damned, and took off through the throng not caring if he bumped one or two.

He moved as quickly as his wheels would let him, feeling for all the world he was rooted into place. The closer and closer he got, the more and more he couldn't tell himself it wasn't the dojo. It was flames eating the large paper and cardboard and metal home like great orange tongues. There were bots scattered about, maybe one or two firebots, but Prowl wasn't aware. He wasn't aware of the shouts of the firebots for him to keep back, to stop, to get out of the burning building. He was in a daze, this wasn't happening, it had only been a dream!

A flaming ceiling support crashing before him snapped him from his stupor, reality settling back into place with unnecessary horror. There was no place to turn that wasn't engulfed in flames, and everything was so hot he felt like he was melting.

"Sensei!" Prowl called, inhaling sharply and coughing just as harshly as smoke filled his intakes. Doubled over, he pushed himself on. Only the main home was made of the flammable material, the protected part was heavily buried in cement and lead.

He ran into it, intaking the cleaner air as he ran through the hall of Sensei's past students and into the room filled with countless protoforms. He stopped, mouth gaping, as a dreaded sense of deja-vous flooded him.

_No future._

_Death._

_Pain._

_Destruction._

The pods were open, large mouths revealing nothing at all. The roof above him was smashed open, glass and metal rods and shingles littered about like a garbage dump and crunched beneath his pedes like gravel. There, just as it had been in his subconscious, the prone figure lay still. But, unlike the hallucination, he had a free range of motion. Albeit, it was out of is control, but he was running towards the thin frame.

He fell to his pedes, barely recognizing the frame of his Sensei with out his samurai armor. He looked so small and helpless, the added bulk that had always made him seem invincible stripped away like old paint from a wall. His helm was covered in wires, his armor not just removed but torn so harshly that protofrom and paneling had been ripped off as well. Energon wormed from his servos and pedes, and the visible spark in his chest was loosing light as fast as the lifeblood flowed.

"Sensei?" Prowl asked, not even sure this bot could be that skilled Teacher he had left just joors ago. "Sensei, I-I'm so - I didn't mean for this to happen."

Those blue optics, always so full of life, flickered dimly as they cracked open. "Prowl." That voice, too, so strong, was broken and weak. "Not... not your-" A choking cough stole his Sensei's breath, and Prowl fought the urge to run.

"Wait here, please." Prowl pleaded, running towards the ledge until he had clambered to one of the pods. Whatever thief had been here, he hadn't taken all of the protoforms. He dragged it back, laying the grey form next to the greying one of his Sensei. "Hold still."

With shaking hands, he grasped his Sensei's chamber and lifted. He felt the life, the soul of Yokotron, thrumming with death within his hands. As quickly as he dared, as if moving a flickering candle and fearing the flame would go out, he slid it into the chest of the lifeless protoform. Just as he expected, the exact replica of the frame he had taken the soul from was formed to the protoform.

Yokotron intook harshly, opening optics to see a face he hadn't expected to see ever again. At least, not in this world. "Prowl?"

Prowl's spark faltered at the tone. So questioning, Yokotron was disappointed in him. Just what had he done wrong. "Sensei." he vented in relief. "Just lie down, Sensei, everything will be all right."

"What have you done?" the mech bit, servos weak as he propped himself up. "You haven't stopped anything."

"But, I-I've saved you." Prowl gasped, an odd prickling in his optics. "I brought you back to me; Sensei, what did I do wrong?"

"Oh, Prowl." a trembling hand was lifted to caress a black cheek, a scrawny thumb stroking it gently. Each spurt of spoken words was broken by an unsteady breath, and Yokotron slowly went back to the floor. "Someorn, you will... understand, when your time comes. You must not sacrifice a... piece of the future to... bring back the... past."

A shallow breath that didn't quite reach his ventilation shafts was wheezed out, and Yokotron vented out. His spark, the steadily glowing orb just moments ago, went out like a blown candle. Prowl's optics snapped up from the spark to the optics, finding them closed and sealed and grey.

"Sensei, Sensei I don't understand." his voice trembled. "Sensei, what do you mean?" The frame did not answer. "Sensei, please." Prowl gasped, voice broken. "Sensei, I-I need you to explain. Please..." his servos were giving out, and he slowly slumped over the prostrate frame, clutching the limbs being taken by rigor mortis. His voice was no more than a whisper, "I need you."

His vision was spotty, but he knew he was being pulled away. In and out the dojo went, Yokotron and the empty pods farther and farther away each time his vision came back into momentary focus. Strong hands were holding him tight, heat still radiating all around. He was moving, but not on his own. His intakes felt so heavy, and he thought he might have been coughing more than once. The smoke was still so very thick, and his mouth and throat hurt too much to try to intake any longer.

More hands, and something hard and cold lay beneath him. Cold air whooshed above for only a moment, black speckled with white filling his hidden optics. That cold breeze seemed to focus only on his mouth, condensation forming around his hot lips.

"...coming to..." something or someone said to the right of him. Or maybe it was the left. "Give... some... stand back. He's coming to, now. Get those spectators away."

Lights were flashing, the red and blue of emergency workers and Prowl found himself looking up at the face of an orange femme, a red medical cross magnetically stuck to her servo. Her hand was holding a plastic oxygen mask stationary over his mouth, burning worse than the smoke had. Prowl choked, shoving her hand away as he forced himself up and coughed into his closed fist.

"Easy." the EMT said gently, a steady stream of liquid hissing somewhere behind him, the scent of smouldering ash filling the air worse than melted protofrom. "Just take deep breaths."

Prowl would have ignored her, pushing the soft hand away again had he not been too preoccupied with pushing soot up from his ventilation shafts. By the time he had managed to intake normally again, his hand was covered in sticky, black ash and he did not doubt his mouth fared much the same.

The EMT was talking, seemingly never having shut up in the first place, the large femme rattling off questions Prowl discovered he must have answered during his coughing fit. How else would she had known his name? "Is this your home, Prowl?"

Now in full control of himself, he turned his head away from her and towards the rubbish heap that might at one time been called a home. Now, it was nothing but distant memories and burnt paper. "Sensei Yokotron is still inside." Prowl snapped. "In the lower levels, there is a bunker, you should be able to-"

"Was there only one bot in there other than you?" the garish thing asked, colors too bright to be in the dark.

Hesitantly, Prowl nodded. "Yes, so?"

The femme swallowed, a sympathetic look she must have practiced often crossing her face. "I'm very sorry, Prowl. We found the body of a mech containing a spark, and one of a fried protofrom. The protoform wasn't salvageable and the mech was already offline." The young bot didn't answer, and she slowly reached forward to grasp a skinny servo. "I'm very sorry for your-"

With reflexes like a cyber-cat on steroids, the mech jerked away from her touch, all but growling as he snapped away. Instead of answering, he turned his back, quickly rising to his pedes.

"Wait!" the EMT femme exclaimed, scrambling to her own pedes quite ungracefully compared to the young mech. "You have burns on the bottoms of your pedes, you're singed in other places, and there could still be soot in your ventilation shafts. You need to be check out at a hospital."

She was allowed to rattle on only because Prowl hadn't stopped her. He ignored her every word, slinking away into the darkness and popping up somewhere next to the firebots still hard a work making sure no other fires sprang up from the overheated mixture of metal, paper, and cardboard. She vented to herself, slowly packing away her tools. She'd hang around a bit before trying again.

And hang around she did, but by the time dawn broke out and all that remained was floating bits of charred ash and a smouldering pile or two, she found herself surrounded by all sorts of bots. Nosy spectators and Enforcers acting as crowd control, another EMT or two and firebots on hand. Many bots, but not a single Cyber-ninja. At least, not the one she was looking for.

* * *

Greenie started as a dirty, black hand slapped a tinkling pair of crystals down in front of him, tingling together like delicate glass. He followed the dinged, dented, singed servo up to a tired, tight, face covered by a smudged visor.

"Will you take these?" Prowl demanded, voice sharp and biting.

Quickly, the green mech scrambled to his pedes. It was early morning, few shoppers meandering from shop to shop and peeping in the windows of those that hadn't opened yet. Very few vendors were open yet, but any traveling salesmech knew the best time to open up was at the crack of dawn.

"Primus, son." Greenie gaped, optics wide. "You look terrible. Is everything-"

The hand pushed the rolling crystals forward, tinkling all the louder. "Will you take these or _not_?"

"For the holographic projector?" the green mech asked, already fishing his pudgy servos through the mass of his collection.

Prowl gave a curt nod. "Assuming you haven't sold it yet."

"Not at all." he replied, withdrawing the little black box. He vented, optics sweeping over the small frame again. There was a distinct tremble in his limbs, both tense and weak all at once. As if he were too stubborn to collapse but too tired to go on. "Youngling, I'm all for a good haggling, but you really do look like scrap. Are you sure you're all right?"

The youngling paused only a moment, his visor unmoving but the optics beneath shifting to the ground. "I'm fine." he lied smoothly, turning the crystals over into his open palm. "Would you take these as an even trade?"

All that he held were a few scratched, edible crystals anybot with a few credits could get at a cheap vendor. Natural sweeteners, highly potent and easily crushed. Together the pair might go for ten chips, and that was if someone was feeling _really_ generous. Or insane. There was no way those two little crystals, powdery and scratched, would cover the scientific and technical wonder that was the holographic projector. Greenie was all for helping bots on their feet and cutting good deals, but he wasn't going to stand for being cheated.

"Now, son, I..." the mech shook his helm, crossing his servos in front of him and letting one dangle down.

"I have a few chips in my subspace." Prowl added swiftly. How could he forget the change he had from yesterorn?

Greenie raised his optic ridge. "How many?"

"Two." Prowl stated, almost eagerly. "Maybe three."

Greenie scrubbed a hand over his mouth venting. Primus, was he stuck between a pair of crystals and a hard place. Those two chips wouldn't buy the youngling so much as half a rust stick.

"You know." Greenie put on a broad smile. "The crystals plus the coinage might just cut it." His spark hurt from the terrible deal he had made. At least it hadn't been the stab of guilt.

The exchange was made quickly, faster on the green mech's end as he feared changing his mind at the last klik. What kind of soft-sparked fool was he? The kind that read the newspads and put two and two together. There was a newspad next to his chair, covering a local fire. He couldn't forget Prowl's wide, horrified optics the evening before and now his current condition only added the last pieces to his puzzle.

"Here." Greenie spoke after tucking the crystals away in a case behind his kiosk. He'd grind them up for his breakfast in a moment. He rounded the large stand and took the black box from Prowl's hand. "It goes on like this."

The projector couldn't have fused to Prowl's shoulder any better if it had been made for him right off the assembly line. After quickly showing him how to use it, Greenie turned to say good day. His chair creaked beneath his heavy weight, and we watched the youngling turn to go. There was a definite limp in his pedes, as if walking pained him. Stopping, Prowl turned back.

"Sir." he started, almost embarrassedly. "Do you know any shipyards around here?"

Greenie hummed, stroking his chin. "There's one a couple astromiles from here. Anything from alts to scan to carriercraft. Why, lookin' for a job or lift?"

Prowl shrugged one shoulder, bidding the mech a muttered good-bye before heading in the pointed direction. He wasn't looking for a lift, he was looking for a ride of his own. Tucked away deep within his subspace was one of the few things worth salvaging from the fire: Sensei Yokotron's prized, highly sought after, and _expensive_ crystal.

* * *

"Oh."

Jazz's helm started up, having paused a moment to collect himself. "What's wrong?"

The black mech beside him looked downcast, fiddling with the edges of his blanket. "You've stopped. Is that the end?"

Jazz quickly shook his helm. "Far from it. That's just barely the beginning."

Prowl's face smoothed out once more before puckering at the derma in though. "How terrible for that mech, losing everything."

"Not just him." Jazz added. "Every bot - well, almost everybot. Everybot that Yokotron had trained suffered a horrible lost when he offlined. This Prowl, though, was the one who was with him when he went."

Prowl hummed quietly, filing that away within his faulty processor. "I see. Now, go on."

Jazz chuckled softly. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Author's Note - *begin rant* THERE IS A _**HUGE**_ DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SAMUARI AND NINJA! Okay... maybe not huge - but there is a big, moderately sized difference between the two that should be seen as different from one another. *end rant*

Another time-skip. Prowl's about 17/18 here and looked at younger mentally.

And, just so that doesn't sound confusing, he's not looked on as stupid or nieve, merely young. If you live for millions/billions/aeons of years you would look at those with ages under three or four digits as young and inexperienced. Prowl is almost an adult by his standard as - being they are a highly intelligent species - their youth is very short compared to a humans. But, it'll take a lot longer if you did it by earth times. Notice how Bee didn't age at all during his year(s) on earth? They gained wisdom and maturity and experience (excluding Bee here) but not really any age.

This chapter was kinda rambling, but I didn't really know what to do with it. I KNEW what I wanted, just not how to line it up.

Also, I just remembered that I totally forgot about Prowl's holographic projector and, like his shruiken, he had them before he even entered the dojo. Being a fool and not watching the show for many years, that slipped my mind. This story is already pretty AU, so lets just say that he didn't have it yet. Makes it all more dramatic. (Also, if anyone can tell me what the device looked like? I don't think he ever took it off, but I could be forgetting again. My memory really isn't bad, I just deemed TFA as unimportant and didn't strive to remember it.)

GREENIE'S BACK! (See 'The Praxian' a work on hiatus for now) Still has no name. :( Poor Greenie.

One more thing - I know I misquoted several times here, but I had a lot of difficulty finding even Yokotron's final words let alone what they said in the protoform room. TFwiki is great, and addicting, but it's a high schooler's notes compared to the Encyclopedia Britannica.

Self-beta's, all mistakes are my own.

Please enjoy and review!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

**Warnings - None I can think of - Severe AU-ness, perhaps?**

**Disclaimers - I don't own anything.**

**Chapter Rating - T**

**Chapter Summary - Prowl finds it impossible to ever be alone - even in the vast emptiness of space some stupid slagger finds a way. A certain Doctor and Prowl get off on the wrong pede. Prowl really is clever. He proves it. Do. Not. Touch. Him.**

**I mean, seriously, did you see how he swatted Bee in that one episode? (I saw it 4 years ago and it still is awesome in my mind) He swatted Bee like a... bee. 'Kay, done.**

**Characters this Chapter - Prowl. Optimus Prime. Ratchet. Bumblebee. Bulkhead. Jazz at the end.**

* * *

It hadn't been difficult finding a desolate rock he could call his own. Space was the final frontier - and frontier meant uncharted land and vacuum space ripe for settling. He wasn't a homesteader, his crappy little ship all the home he needed. He only needed a place separated from society and any kind of spark other than his own.

Prowl had started his crusade, his optics quest to find himself and his place in the big, big world. He wasn't ready for it, but he hadn't exactly been ready when he had been thrown out on the streets as a youngling, either. He had survived then, and he'd find a way now. Ready or not.

He intook again, settling deeper into the crevice he had found within a cavern. It was nothing special, and this hunk of rock was nothing more than a giant asteroid on the outreaches of the galaxy. He was still within Cybertron's system, but only the incredibly outcasted would ever find their way here.

_Focus._ Prowl reminded himself harshly, fighting against the urge to open his optics. There would be nothing to look at if he did, only rock and space dust he had kicked up in settling here cycles ago. _You must find peace._

Yokotron had always been so good at this. Such a peaceful mech, always soft-spoken and kind. Just what kind of bot could murder such a perfect spark as the one Prowl had watched fade out groons back? Would that same mech come for him, the way he had come for Sensei? He could feel the flames casting heat even here in the cold emptiness of space. The atmospheric pressure vanished for the heavy, crushing of gravity Prowl had felt pulling him down as he fell next to the greyed frame. His spark hammered in his chest, any calm he had been trying for vanishing like the dojo in fire.

_'Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear.'_ It was one of the first rules within the data-scrolls. You could not find peace if you were filled with anxiety.

"Ummm, there's somebody in there."

Prowl nearly started from his faulty meditation, the deep voice of an adolescent breaking his thin concentration. There was sombot there... _Impossible._ he chastised himself, pausing a moment, _Isn't it?_

Another voice, high and almost described as squeaky piping up. "Is he offline?"

Prowl internally rolled his eyes, forcing himself to stay still instead of turning away from the annoying voices. It was probably a family of tourists taking a pit stop on their way to the next pleasure planet. Of course they would pick his rock to stretch their pedes on.

"Poke him."

Oh, Primus, no. He dared them to try, the afts bothering him. Couldn't they tell he wanted to be left alone?"

"I'm not gonna poke him!" the first voice argued. "You touch him."

There was a pause, barely. "Fine!" Great, a daredevil. A bot who jumped before they looked and then complained when they were injured. "Don't think that I won't!"

The creaking of joints and suspenders hissed quietly as the youngling crept forward. Prowl was momentarily surprised at the silence, most bots cloddy and loud with their movement. But, this was space, and the bot sounded small for his age. Prowl knew all too well how easy it was to be light on your pedes when you weighed next to nothing.

He could feel the disturbance of the nonexistant air as a digit hesitantly went towards his face. Now was the time to strike.

"Do. You. Mind?" he ground out between gritted denta, grasping the round wrist between his digits. He was right, this garrishly colored mechling was small. Bordering on mini-bot, if he wasn't one to begin with. "I am trying to meditate."

The youngling yelped, tugging his stationary servo as hard as he could. "Hey, lemme go!"

Prowl threw away the wrist as if it had burned him. He sniffed indignantly, rising to his pedes. "Lost?" he harumphed, glancing towards the rather large hole that had materialized in the wall. A green mech, as round as a bloated ball, waved with a cheesy grin.

"Nope." the green behemoth, or gentle giant, as that soft glint and smile crossed the large bots face, shook his helm.

Prowl hummed. "Too bad." he muttered only to himself. He strained his audios, a voice calling out from the asteroid's outer shell.

"Bumblebee! Bulkhead! Where did you go?" A pause. "Regroup, that's an order!"

_Order..._ Prowl mused, shifting his hidden optics to the chests of the two bots before him. Both bore insignias of red on their chassis, the symbol of Cybertronian military.

"You are Autobots." the word left a bad taste on Prowl's glossa.

If either youngling had caught the condescending tone he used, both were too stupid to notice. "Mm-hmm." the yellow one hummed. "We're working on space-bridge repair and keeping."

Prowl lifted an optic ridge, wondering just why he was following the two of them out of his hole and to the surface. Was he that starved for company he was willing to follow an obese mechling and an annoying youngling to others probably no better? He choked at the term. "Quite a sesquipedalian way of stating 'Maintenance.'"

"Huh?" the green one moaned stupidly, looking as if one or more of his neural synapses had fried.

Prowl vented, ignoring him. A red and blue bot had come into view, one moment looking as annoyed as Prowl felt and the next looking curious. This was obviously the bot looking for the two younglings. This mech, also bearing the Autobot insignia, towered over Prowl almost as much as the green giant, but his face held a young, neiveness Prowl had never experienced before.

Prowl snorted as the mech neared, tossing his helm up and crossing his servos over his bare, and suddenly rather naked feeling, chest. "Lose something?"

"No." the red mech stated. His cerulean optics traveled over the black bot, sweeping over him once or twice before finding his voice. "I apologize if the two of them were any trouble. We're working on busting up some asteroids in the way and weren't aware of anybot else being here."

"Sensor sweeps are both cheap and efficient." Prowl bit back haughtily.

"And something most garbage scows aren't outfitted with." the tall mech added as if carrying on a kind conversation. He held out a large hand, white paint highlighting his digits. "My designation is Optimus Prime."

It was withdrawn slowly as Prowl cast up an optic ridge. "So?"

Optimus vented, tucking his servo behind his back a moment. "Just how long have you been here?"

"A million stellar cycles." Prowl vented, no more than six groons if he wanted to do the math. Perhaps he was starving for company, and some actual sleep. He pinched his olfactory ridge. "A million cycles of meditation and nothing to show for it but a pounding processor-ache."

"We have a medic if you feel you need him to check you over." Optimus offered kindly.

Prowl only huffed again. "It'd be better if I went on my way."

Neither were given a chance to speak as a sudden shout went out from near the cavern Prowl and his ship had resided in. "Fire in the hole!" a gravely voice shouted out, just before a loud blast shook the ground beneath them.

The cavern was no more, merely another crevice spotting the asteroid's face like freckles. Smoke rose just as it had from the dojo roof, except melting plastic and glass and metal replaced burning paper and protoform.

"My ship!" Prowl shouted, rushing towards the deep hole and staring down at what remained - a hull not even fit for a cube of scrap metal. He growled, thrusting a digit out at the red and blue mech and now a white and red mech sheepishly taking his place beside him. "Now how am I supposed to get of this Primus-forsaken rock?"

"Now just calm down." Optimus lifted his hands. "We have a ship of our own, and we'd be happy to give you a lift back to Cybertron. We just need to finish up our work here."

Had Prowl been any lesser of a mech, he would have been fighting back tears. He had traded his Sensei's prized crystal for that crappy, run down, leaky, drafty, hazard of a ship. Anything else that hadn't been his own pair of shruiken had been traded in for fuel and a very small medical kit, all gone now. He had nothing left of his Teacher's, nothing left of the dojo, and nothing but the armor on his back as his sole possessions. "And just how long is that?"

"Ten, maybe twelve vorns." Optimus replied as if he were talking in orns. "It's not that big a deal. Plus, I'm sure if you were willing to lend a hand-"

"Ha!" Prowl shouted, not a note of laughter in his tone as he whirled around. "You expect _me_ to work as a common maintenance bot?"

It seemed not even calling Optimus a name right to his face would rile him up. "If we all lend a hand and pull our own weight, I'm sure we could-"

"Oh, slag."

It hadn't been Prowl who had responded, but the old medic. Optimus turned sharply. "What is it, Ratchet?"

"I..." the mech fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment. "I had dropped _two_ cubes of C-4."

Optimus hummed in agreement. "And?"

"And only one exploded." Ratchet swallowed. "The other was delayed."

Ironically, the little cube of bubbling, liquid C-4 had decided that it had remained unstable long enough, and the chemical implosion collapsed right on cue.

_Ka-boom!_

Scrap, he hadn't been ready. Optimus had wound him up too tightly with his gentility and abundance of proverbial olive branches. Had he been able to focus on where he was standing, he would have noticed how unstable the ledge was. Prowl could have moved away for more suitable ground instead of grunting at the force of impact as he was tossed into space like a lobbing ball from a wrecker.

The world was spinning, it too much to ask that he was tossed away in a straight line instead of all over the place like he was. Stars and nebula blurred together with the black emptiness and the occasional flash of an asteroid. No money, no ship, and no gravity.

His intakes caught as he was grabbed around the middle, strong and smooth hands grabbing him before he could be lost in space for good. He wasn't carried back down, thankfully, merely shoved back in the right direction. He initiated an automatic gravity sequence just in time to watch the red and blue bot use all sorts of upgrades - grappling hooks, fire extinguishers, and rocket spurts - to collect the rest of his pals and land.

Of course, the yellow nightmere would be shoved right next to him, mouth gaping like a Sharkticon's with an energon treat dangling above its mouth. He used a single digit to close it, venting and trying not to look too surprise. "Impressive." he admitted lowly.

Optimus only hummed lightly, half glaring at Ratchet and the medic trying not to shuffle his pedes. "It's nothing, really."

Prowl shook his helm. "I'm afraid I don't know your style. It doesn't match any kind of Art I am aware of."

"That's because it's not." Optimus replied. "I... trained at the academy awhile."

"_You_ went to the Academy?" Ratchet's optics widened. Perhaps this little service group wasn't as close-knit as Prowl had first suspected. "Just what's an Elite Guardsman doing working on a cleaning scow?"

Optimus shifted uncomfortably. "I... dropped out halfway in. Didn't make the cut."

"Bullslag." Ratchet cursed, finding his glossa now that his mistake had been taken care of. He turned, optics narrowing in on the black Cyber-ninja. He pointed, "What's that?"

A smirk pulled the edges of the tall mech's face. "_That_ is Prowl. You blew up his ship." Optimus added. "Twice."

Ratchet's lips puckered in a 'O', quietly drawing out an 'Oohhhh'. He clasped his hands in front of him, a slow drawl stretching out his every word. "Well, sorry 'bout that. These hands weren't exactly trained for handling highly volatile explosives."

"And yet you're trusted with the health, care, and possible surgery of your squadron?" Prowl lifted an optic ridge for what felt like the third time so far.

The old medic's face pinched. "I'll admit, I'm a bit rusty, but just what kind of ninja are you?"

Prowl's visor narrowed. "Explain."

"Ain't your type supposed to be sneaky and all-perfect?" Ratchet snorted. "You didn't look so dern sure of yourself when that blast took ya by surprise."

Prowl huffed, refraining from stomping his pede as he whirled away. He ignored the grouse of 'Oh, great, a ninja with a 'tude' behind him. He turned towards the maintenance leader. "Just where is this supposed ship of yours, or were you dumped here until you finish your job?"

"No, we've got a ship." Optimus promised, tossing a thumb digit over his shoulder and towards a large ship seemingly small from distance. "It's not much, but it's sturdy and has plenty of room for all of us." He smiled. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."

Prowl lifted an optic ridge for the last time. If this band of misfits was the only place he was going to fit in, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

* * *

"Where the Pit do ya think you're going?"

Prowl vented, scoffing as he was called out by the medic. It had been a long trek to the new ship, then a stupid grand tour had been given before Optimus had shown him to the closet he was going to be sleeping in. Of course, all the other rooms were just as small, but Prowl was tired and wanted to try once more to reach the meditation that had remained out of his grasp for so long.

"Does it matter?" Prowl returned hotly. "It isn't as if I have the ability to leave, you taking care of that."

The medic rolled his optics. "You're new here, so for the safety of us all, I need to give you a medical check-up."

"For what reasons?" Prowl demanded. "I can assure you I'm quite healthy."

"You and what doctor?" Ratchet groused. "For all we know you could have been in some kind of quartine ship and rocketed out here to keep Cyberton clean. Now, that's probably not the case," Ratchet added before Prowl could retaliate, "but for the sake of us all, you're coming with me."

It wasn't like Prowl had a choise in the matter to begin with. His servo was grabbed in a grip as warped as Yokotron's had been, maybe not as powerful, but strong in its own, stubborn way. He was all but tossed onto one of the two med-berths and a diagnostics machine pulled from a compartment in the wall. It chugged noisily a breem, refusing to turn on, until a swift kick to its base had it humming like a new engine.

"Now, lets see what we've got here." Ratchet muttered to himself, sweeping the scanner over Prowl for an external overview first. The scanner swept over his frame, first green, then green again, then red.

Ratchet hummed to himself. "What've we got here?" he asked nobot in particular. Of course, the old mech would be the type that talked to himself when there was anotherbot right there in the room. It was as annoying as somebot reading over your shoulder-pad. He poked the bottom of Prowl's pedes, lightly as any trained medic would. "Does this hurt?"

Prowl rolled his hidden optics. "No."

Ratchet hummed again, a device similar to a jewel-smith's lens sliding out over one of the medic's optics. "Looks like you've got some damage here: singes and crumpled metal around the edges."

"Your point?" Prowl grit out between clenched denta.

Ratchet's optics narrowed at the younger mech. "I'd say it come from severe burns; melted plating, even. There's similar scar tissue going up as high as your knee-cap." He snorted. "Probably some of your damn ninja-training of walking on coals. I mean, really, in this orn and age, who does that anymore?"

"I don't know." Prowl replied to the rhetorical rant. "Cyber-ninja's do not 'walk on coals' or practice any kind of self-mutilation."

The blue optics narrowed again, a snarky pucker tugging the older medic's derma plating. "Ya think you're so clever, don't'cha?"

"I am." Prowl answered just as calmly as before. "Clever, that is."

Ratchet snorted, returning to his scans. He cried out as Prowl shoved himself up from his laying position. "Hey! Just what the slag do ya think you're doing?"

"You don't belive me." Prowl's optic band narrowed in on the bulky, if not pot-bellied, frame of the aged medic. Not nearly as old as Yokotron, however. "You don't believe me when I say I am clever."

Ratchet vented, allowing his zooming lens to retract. He rubbed his olfactory ridge. "Kid, you just met Bee and know what kinda cocky little aft he is. In his helm, he's the Magnus' slag. To us, he's an annoying little slagger who needs to be put in his place."

Prowl couldn't help but grunt in agreement. "True, but you have spent a great deal of time with him. That, and he's exceedingly easy to read. Me, on the other hand..." Prowl allowed his voice to trail off, Ratchet making his own assumptions.

"Don't judge a pad by it's cover, hm?" Ratchet cocked an optic ridge. He snorted lightly. "Sure, kid, whatever. Now just lie back down and let me straighten out that pede damage. It's not bad, but it'll sure feel better once it's all straightened out."

Ratchet barely had time to withdraw a pair of straightening magnets from his subspace compartment before Prowl had launched himself off the berth and to his pedes. "I believe this _invasive_ procedure has gone on quite enough."

Had the tools not been magnetic, they certainly would have clattered to the floor as Ratchet threw his hands in the air. "Invasive? Invasive, my aft! I've just done an external assessment; we still need to do an internal sweep."

"External..." Prowl huffed. "What you mean to tell me is that this entire time you've been looking at my _armor_?"

"Ehh." Ratchet shook his hands in the universal 'so-so', the little magnets holding tight to his palms and digits. "And outer protoform. Just sit your aft back down and we'll finish up, make sure you're not carrying Cosmic Rust or something like that."

"If I were, I'd most certainly be offlined by now." Prowl bit, slowly sitting back down on the edge of the berth. "You will leave my pedes alone, however."

The magnets were pulled, with some trouble, and tossed onto a near-by workstation, with equal trouble. "Fine, fine. Whatever you want, 'kay? Now just lie back down and let my scanner do its work."

Prowl vented heavily as the light tingling of a full-body scan began to slowly sweep across him, from the crest of his helm to the dents of his pedes.

* * *

"Well, if that ain't the darndest thing I've ever saw."

Sometimes, the medic's drawl was enough to drive one nuts. In this case, though, Optimus was inclined to agree. It was the darndest of things. Prowl had been reported 'missing' since the morning had broken out - if space had a morning, that is - and a morning roll call had been taken. It was more or less a helm count as everybot grabbed breakfast, but it still showed one helm missing from the scanty crew.

"Damned ninja." Ratchet had groused, rubbing a scar on his servo. "Probably robbed us blind in our sleep and took off 'fore any of us were up."

While denying the fact, Optimus had agreed the wisest thing to do was spread out and look for him, in groups of two. It was a ninja, after all. It had taken Ratchet's skilled EMP tracker to find the new spark, all the way down in the engine room. On first appearance, the large room had appeared empty. However, as Ratchet tugged his servo and pointed up-

-Prowl was up on one of the ship's low-hanging support structures, acting as both a beam and a walkway from one part of the engines to the other. The beam was very thin, and used only in emergencies if that specific part of the engine was broken. And, seemingly in this case, the perfect hide away to practice katas.

Optimus cleared his throat, the mech above performing slow, graceful stretches freezing mid-stride, helm darting to look below. Optimus whet his derma, trying to find the right thing to say. Prowl, however, beat him to it.

"Do you mind?" he grit out, much as he had the orn before.

Optimus would have turned and fled like one walking in on their carrier and sire in berth together, doing things other than sleeping. Ratchet, on the other hand, was the type to stick around, point fingers, and make wisecrack comments.

"Nope." Ratchet replied with a shrug. "Don't mind a bit, carry on."

Prowl visibly faltered, nearly sputtering as he lost his position for a more natural pose. "This is very private!"

"What, doin' a few morning stretches?" Ratchet egged on. "I'm a doctor, I'm not gonna tell you not to do some exercise. Primus knows somebots could use it."

Prowl hummed quietly, sitting down on the thin beam as if it were a firm seat made of cement and bolted to the ground. "I suppose you would be a prime example of those bots?"

"Why, you little-"

"Mechs!" Optimus exclaimed, placing a hand in front of the medic before he could find a way to get up there with Prowl. Or find something to throw at him. He craned his neck cables to look up, black pedes hanging limply over the thin walkway and hands placed loosely in lap. "We didn't mean to bother you, but you were missing and-"

"Figured I had left?" Prowl lifted an optic ridge. "For your information, the Arts I practice hold a very strong moral coding." '_Then be slow to take a life', 'As far as possible, do not kill.' _crossed Prowl's mind, the ancient scrolls still burned into his processor. What did they take him for, an energon-starving assassin? "Also," he added haughtily, "you could have initiated a simple scan. Even tin-plated buckets such as these come standard with those."

Optimus' face reddened slightly, but he kept his composure. Why hadn't he thought of that? "For a bot supposedly cut off from all major technology, you know quite a bit about the subject."

Prowl turned his helm away from the young Prime, optic band focusing in on the medic with a 'told-you-so' glint. "I said I was clever."

Ratchet only snorted in disbelief. "Any schmuck can read a pad on ships."

Prowl paused, his face morphing from blank to lightly cocky "There are data-pads?"

With a huff and great roll of the optics, Ratchet grumbled and stormed away. Optimus wasn't even given a chance to say good-bye, his servo gripped harshly and dragged away. Prowl vented, watching the door close behind the two. He waited a moment, waiting for the next pair of idiots to come in and bother him. None came, and he slowly rose to his pedes.

"Now, where was I?" he muttered under his breath. "Ah, yes. Crouching cyber-cat..."

* * *

"Ha!"

_Crack..._

"Yah!"

_Cra-aack!_

"Ha-yah!"

The boulder exploded beneath his hands and pedes, the smaller pebbles and rocks slowly beginning to float away with the lack of gravity. Behind him, an explosion rang out. He had been given a small stack of the liquid, highly volatile cubes of liquid C-4 to use. They rested in a neat pile safely tucked away within a small cranny in the asteroid's face, where they would rest and remain unexploded.

Prowl shouted again, focusing on just the right parts of his frame to stretch a long crack over the next giant rock. He could hear the steady _clip-clopping_ of pedes behind him, some petty Autobot coming to check up on him and see how he was doing. _Like I need their imput._

"You know," the voice of Optimus Prime started slowly as he let his processor catch up with his optics, observing Prowl apply another blow to the rock, "the explosives would go much faster."

Prowl allowed a small smirk to cross his face, but only a klik. He planted another strike. "Please," he scoffed, "where's the fun in that?" The rock, like the first one, seemed to explode from within and slowly scatter the debris about.

He heard but didn't care when a soft sigh sounded behind him. Prowl was being cocky, ignorant, and maybe even foolish with how he was acting. Yokotron would have been ashamed of him, or perhaps just saddened at how much he had slipped up these past few months. That raging inferno within had started up again, the fiery temper he had been onlined with allowed to rampage about. Meditation and reviewing the Sacred Scrolls in his helm nightly helped keep his moral and ethics code in check, but little calmed his pounding processor and aching spark. He missed his Sensei, and he could tell nobot. Why not?

_Because I'm a prideful aft_. Prowl chastised himself, applying an even harder blow and nearly cracking his hand. He hadn't focused and tensed right. Optimus had caught his flinch, but didn't say anything as Prowl turned away from the towering rock structure.

"Is there something you wanted?" Prowl demanded, covertly rubbing his wrist and the side of his hand.

Optimus shook his helm, something silver reflecting in his hands. "Nothing that comes to mind. Just," he lifted his hand, revealing a hammer/pick-ax combo, "came to see if you needed any help."

Prowl's closed fist connected with the firm stone yet again. "As you can see, I'm quite fine."

The tall mech shrugged a tall shoulder, getting a good grip on his tool before sending it towards the same rock structure. "Than company, then."

"I'm fine in that area as well." Prowl huffed, withholding a sigh as Optimus continued to work on the boulder.

They worked in silence for some time, first breaking up one giant stone before moving on to the next. It was around the fifth that Optimus finally gave voice to his thoughts. "I see you're not an Autobot."

Prowl lifted an optic ridge. "It took you that long to tell?"

The Autobot Maintenance Leader shook his helm. "It was obvious the moment I saw you; just thought I'd wait until you were alone to ask."

Prowl snorted, motioning towards Optimus' tool. "So now your motives come to light."

"No, that's not it." Optimus started, hands falling still. "Not at all, I just... it might have been private or- you just seem like a quiet mech, is all."

The black Cyber-ninja hummed quietly to himself, glancing over the stony face for some kind of fault or divit. Finding none, he began to work on making one. "It was simple, really. I just didn't join."

"How'd you skip the drafts?" Optimus returned to his own work. "Anybot over a certain age was pulled in, even just for janitorial work."

"I was exempt." Prowl paused, optics glued to the gray and brown minerals buried within the stone. "The dojo was..." _Asylum, a sanctuary, home._ "...Neutral, during the War."

Optimus hummed lightly, the pick-ax side of his hammer working furiously away at the rock, chipping off flinty pieces that floated away. "I suppose that, having lived there your whole life, they simply overlooked you when the drafts came."

Prowl fell silent, finding it better to beat up the rock instead of answer.

"You know," Optimus continued between the great rings of the metal hitting stone and his tool pounding rock, "not everybot was so lucky. Bee and Bulkhead were drafted, I would have been had I not already been in the Academy at the time. Obviously the War was pretty much over by then, just picking up straggling 'Cons here and there on this distant planet or that asteroid." He paused again, a sixth sense revealing that Prowl had paused and was now staring directly at him. "What?"

"You would do well to not talk about things you don't know." Prowl snipped. How dare Optimus imply he had such a wonderful, sheltered life. Was this mech so stupid he couldn't put together Prowl's hiding away on this asteroid and his withdrawn attitude together? Did he really mistake sociopathy for snootiness, introverted-ness for pompousness, and his withdrawn-ness for a holier-than-thou attitude?

Optimus, in turn, only lifted an optic ridge. "How old are you, again? You can't be that much older than me, but you like to pretend you're so much older."

As it seemed, he did. Prowl merely turned away. "Age has nothing to do with experience."

"Are you saying you've _experienced_ more than I have?" Optimus dared. Finally, something more than that walking carpet Prowl had seen before. Here was an actual spark, somebot who could actually think for himself instead of blindly following the leader. This bot _was_ a leader, at spark that is. Optimus was capable of great things beyond leading a garbage scow in clean up duty.

Except that he was so incredibly _stupid_. He jumped to assumptions much too quickly, he was so very illogical in thought it made Prowl's own helm hurt in trying to figure it out, and he was slow to put two and two together. He assumed too much about Prowl, his age and neiveness and past experiences. He assumed he was this pampered thing brought up in the lap of luxury. The life of a Cyber-ninja was anything but. Peaceful? Most defiantly. Luxurious? Slag, no.

Prowl's fist connected with the rock so hard he knew he had broken something. But, as the crack traveled straight through the thick boulder before sliding to the side, a perfect slice, he was barely able to hide his own surprise. He turned away with a growl, something snapping hard within.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to set out on a path only to find it so twisted and turned you don't even know where you are anymore?"

If space had not been a vacuum, his voice was sure to have echoed. He turned slightly as a heavy hand rested on his shoulder, a feeling of kindred spirits floating between them as Optimus' optics meet his. "Oddly enough," he said, "I do."

* * *

Jazz paused, so engrossed in his reading he had forgotten all about his audience of one. Just as predicted, a light acid rain danced across the slanted, chalet-like tin roof hanging low over the sunroom. A sad, pitying look came over his face as he looked over the black frame still covered by that blue blanket, shivering lightly in the breeze.

Reluctantly, he offlined his Pad. "I think that's enough reading for one orn, wouldn't you say?"

Prowl looked torn, one half desiring to hear more of the story and the other half too tired and cold to listen anymore. "I..." he huffed a vent. "I suppose so."

Jazz smiled kindly, gracefully rising to his pedes. He subspaced the pad before holding out a hand for the black and gold mech, easily pulling him to his own feet. "I'll come by tomorrow. Is that all right?"

"Yes." Prowl nodded eagerly. "Please do."

"All right, then." Jazz's smile broadened, still never reaching those shielded optics. "It's a date."

* * *

Author's Notes - Can you tell I don't like Bumblebee much? I always exclude him and Bulkhead far too much. I also seemed to make Optimus a dumb-ass and Ratchet Dr. 'Bones' McCoy from Star Trek... Sorry about that. I also used 'Surak's Teachings' for Prowl's Ninja-sayings... Surak was Vulcan's reformer, back when Mr. Spock's people were meat eating, bloodthirsty savages that killed the men, stole the children, and impregnated the women. Now they're logical and pacifists and still impregnate women - but only if they want to be pregnant. (Like that bitch T'Pring, Spock's fiance but pregnant with Stonn's child. What? Can't you see the tummy?)

Also noted, this is morphing into a Genius!Prowl story... I like the British 'genius' term of clever - it sounds less cocky to say 'I'm clever' instead of 'I'm a genius'. Please note Prowl's sudden change, he was more calm and subdued a chapters ago and now he's back to how he started, just a little more controlled.

And, com'mon! Prowl was a genius in ever Generation!

You've also probably noticed I'm doing my own thing now. We will line up with the TFA Timeline soon enough - AllSpark and Key and five D-Cons in a giant ship and Earth and *gags* Sari *gags again* I hated Sari.

In my not so humble opinion, Sari is the creation of a Transformers nerd who always wanted their own OC (see Fanfiction page of Transformers stories for a list of all the OC's/Self-implantations into the fandom). This person finally came into some money and was able to make their own show and, evidently, their own self-incertation/OC. I mean, really. A girl with no mother, a father who is uber rich, befriends BUMBLEBEE, actually LIVES with the Transformers for a time, they all pander to her every need, she came from a FRICKIN' PROTOFORM (which we were all led to belive were stolen/destroyed/lost), is upgraded from 8 years old to 16, can transform herself, can 'sense' what's wrong with machines-

Is anyone else picking up on this? It's a frickin' Mary Sue in a show.

Self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own, including this mistake of an overly-lenghty A/N. Please read and review! I only got 2 reviews last time... is that a testament to my writing? Shout out to all those who know what the word 'sesquipedalian' mean without use of dictionary/google!


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